


You Are Not My Savior (but i still don't go)

by birdginia, slothold (birdginia)



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Collars, Electrocution, Hair-pulling, M/M, Multi, Old Fic, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Shifting perspectives, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, WRITTEN BACK WHEN WE HAD EVEN LESS INFO THAN WE DO NOW, not comic compliant, ~Grey Morality~ or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/slothold
Summary: “You can’t actually sympathize with him. He’s an exterminator. He’s the bad guy."“What if he’s not?”
Relationships: Jet Star/Kobra Kid (Danger Days), Kobra Kid/Korse (Danger Days)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY. so, this fic was originally posted in 2011 on my livejournal, partially as a fill for the killjoys kink meme, also known under the affectionate moniker "stockholmfic." I suddenly remembered it existed and decided to archive it, and possibly my other fic from that time period later, because it was really important to me and my friends at the time. obviously, it's not exactly high quality, does not represent my current views and knowledge, and is probably wildly out of character. i only skimmed it to make sure the tags are up to date and have not edited it. enjoy(?)

They all respond differently to being taken.

The one calling himself Fun Ghoul was pretty standard: plenty of shouting, spitting, name-calling. He built up too much energy if they kept him tied down, so they eventually had to use metal restraints instead of the usual leather.

Jet Star was quieter, a bit more fearful, but he learned to hide that fear behind a bright, defiant smile and a retort to each question about how he wasn’t scared, he wasn’t worried, because he trusted his friends more than anything else in the world. In a way, he was even more obnoxious than Ghoul.

The worst of all was Party Poison. He shouted and name-called as much as Ghoul, but his words were more eloquent, harder to ignore like he could the generic “fuck you, bitchbot.” He hid any emotions behind long speeches about how BL/ind was wrong, about color being the new danger, about nonsense, really. It was almost enough to make him leave and put interrogation duty on someone else, but it was hard to pass up the opportunity to have Poison tied down and screaming, barely able to wrap his lips around the insults he’d try to spew. 

The Kobra Kid is Korse’s most recent trophy, the first after a dry month of little Killjoy activity—which has meant little use for him. He doesn’t know much about this particular Killjoy, only that he’s in the same group as Party Poison and company, so he enters the interrogation room prepared to learn whatever he can.

Kobra’s strapped down to a table, wearing a standard white prisoner’s uniform and staring at the ceiling. There’s no expression on his face, and his eyes are difficult to read, but that’s probably the distance and angle.

“Prisoner BCC100980, birth name unknown, current alias Kobra Kid.” Korse steps down to the center of the room, stopping a few feet away from the prisoner. “Let’s start filling in the blanks there, then. Your birth name?”

There’s no answer. Kobra’s gaze doesn’t shift. 

“I’m going to ask one more time, and then I’m going to _make_ you tell me. Birth name?”

Still no answer. Not even a flicker of movement from his eyes that might be read. 

Korse sighs, an exaggerated gesture, and motions at the Draculoid guarding the door.

Standard procedure. Electric shock, ask the question, no answer, more voltage, ask the question, no answer, over and over until Korse gets bored and signals for the treatment to end. 

It’s only the first day. He can wait.

(Silently, he’s grateful for the challenge. A tougher victim means more time for Korse to be used, and less time in shutdown.)

~

“You’re not helping anyone, you know,” Korse says, strolling around the table where Kobra’s still strapped down. He hasn’t had anything to eat since he was taken. “You’re only going to make this hard on yourself. I don’t have to hurt you.”

Nothing. _Nothing_, four days of nothing, not a movement or a word. If not for the pained faces and the sharp grunts when they put him through the shocks again, Korse wouldn’t even be sure if he has a real human on his hands. 

“Fine,” he says as Kobra’s calming himself down after another session. “If you won’t talk about yourself, let’s talk about your friends.” 

No reaction yet. This might be the wrong route, but he’ll try anyway.

“You’ve been seen with the other _Killjoys_: Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, Party Poison.” He watches Kobra’s eyes as he says each name. There’s a small flicker of something, but it’s hard to tell at what. 

“Fun Ghoul, I had him here. We had to lock him up in a cell when tying him down didn’t work to our advantage.” Korse tugs at one of Kobra’s restraints. “He never could stop moving. He paced back and forth, shrieked at the guards, pounded at the walls until his hands were bleeding. That was the worst part, you know, getting all the blood off the walls. It left terrible stains.”

No response. Nothing new there.

“Jet Star was interesting,” he continues. “He’s so _loyal_, you know. Never gave in to our offers of water, carbons, status, he’d just grit his teeth and smile through all our questions.”

Kobra blinks, but it might not mean anything.

“He was a fool. We woke him up one morning and took him to the execution chamber, a camera in his face, a gun to his head.” Korse smiles at the memory. “He kept saying the same nonsense, how he wasn’t going to betray his friends, how much we would pay for his death, but he’d lost all that cockiness from before. He was _terrified_.”

Kobra’s lip tightens, just the smallest bit. It’s the best reaction he’s gotten all week.

“When we finally put down the gun, told him that we weren’t going to kill him today, he collapsed. Have you ever seen your friend cry? It’s not a pretty sight. We had to have two Draculoids pick him up and carry him out, he wouldn’t move. I suppose you’re proud of him, sacrificing his dignity for the rest of you?”

Kobra never makes eye contact with Korse, but he’s staring at the ceiling with a kind of venom that might actually have an effect on him, if he were to look him in the eye. Nothing else about his posture gives anything away, but Korse knows what to look for in subjects like this. He’s definitely on the right track.

“Of course, I can’t forget Party Poison,” he says, and there, a reaction already—just a quick twitch of the fingers, but it’s definitely something. 

Korse smiles and continues. “He’s your leader, isn’t he? He was very protective of the three of you when I interrogated him. Not the same way as Jet Star was, no…it was less like a loyal friend, more like,” he taps a finger to his chin in thought, “a father. Or an older brother.”

Kobra’s entire face pinches at that, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching, and _well_. This could be an interesting development.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re one happy family.” He doesn’t miss the way Kobra’s hand twitches again on the word _family_. 

“He went through the same treatment as you, you know. Electric shocks, voltage high enough to make him scream for the whole building to hear. Did he tell you?” 

He sees Kobra’s throat working.

“He didn’t, did he? I suppose he has to protect his _baby brothers_ from some things.”

Kobra makes a choked off noise, like he’s barely managing to hold words in. That, _there_, it’s the strongest reaction he’s gotten yet, just from—oh. _Oh_.

“You two…You’re not just brothers in arms, are you?”

Kobra’s tense, clearly trying to hold back any movement.

“You’re _blood_. I can see it now, in your eyes, your face. No wonder you trust him so deeply, following through with his crazy ideas even when they end in your being here.”

“_Don’t_—“ Kobra snaps his jaw shut before he can get another word out.

Korse can’t hide his glee as he turns to the guard at the door, smiling wider than he usually lets himself. “The suspect list, go see if you can narrow it down to a pair of brothers.” There are too many people in Battery City and beyond for even an army of grunts to bother trying to match names and faces. Any detail that will help, especially one like this.

Korse leaves a few minutes later, giving the guard an order to not let Kobra sleep, but to give him food and water. He _loves_ progress.

~

When he enters the room the next morning, Kobra still has the same stoic expression, only slightly strained by lack of sleep.

“Are you going to tell me your name today?”

Kobra doesn’t even blink.

“It doesn’t matter to me, I already know it. We found you and your brother in the database last night. I’m just giving you the opportunity to introduce yourself first.”

Nothing. Korse sighs and pulls a folder out of his jacket pocket, flipping through the pages. “You think I’m bluffing. Michael Way, formerly living in Residential Building 14, Block 36. One criminal charge at age seventeen, caught past curfew with insufficient medication in your blood. Settled after a fine of 500 carbons. Often seen near known Wave-Head bars. Mother Donna, father Donald, brother Gerard.” He looks up from the folder to see Kobra’s—_Michael’s_—face, which is clearly straining to stay in its stoic state. He still won’t speak.

“_Gerard_. It’s a good name for a leader. Memorable.” He hands the folder off to the guard. “_Michael_, though. Much more meaningful. Or do they call you Mike? I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable here.” He smirks.

Michael doesn’t answer, of course. Korse should have gotten used to this by now, but he’s only starting to get annoyed.

“Michael, then. Michael the little lost Killjoy.” He sits down in the chair he always keeps near the table, for the times when he wants to simply sit in the room in silence, maybe wait out a reaction from Michael. 

“What about the rest of them, though?” He leans forward, hands on his knees. “Fun Ghoul? Jet Star? I’m sure you know their names.”

When there’s the usual emotionless silence, Korse decides to go back to what was working yesterday. “Well, if you won’t give me those, you can tell me some more about your _brother_.”

Michael’s hand tenses, and his jaw clenches—probably to keep himself from exposing his emotions otherwise. Korse smirks.

“Tell me about him. He was an interesting character to keep here; I can only imagine what it’s like to grow up with him. He’s got a charismatic streak, hasn’t he?”

He wonders if Michael’s biting on his tongue. Maybe it’s bleeding in his mouth.

“He must, if he was able to convince the three of you to follow him on his ridiculous crusade. Riding through the desert in a beat-up car, destroying my Draculoids when there will always be more behind them, did you really think you were going to make a difference?”

Michael’s mouth is twitching. He’s got words on his lips, he can tell, probably defenses of his brother, justifications for what they do, slogans and Wave-Head vocabulary and everything Korse is trying to stamp out. 

“But he didn’t need to charm you into following him, did he? He’s your _brother_, of course you had to go with him. Whatever insane ideas he had, they were probably right, right? How could your dear brother ever be _wrong?_”

Michael shuts his eyes. It’s a common reaction when he does this, trying to block out one sense when they can’t cover their ears. He’s probably running through his best memories of his brother, or reciting mantras to himself. Ghoul would sometimes do that, but out loud, and he’d be shouting them. 

Korse isn’t going to let him. “How many times have you been hurt out there? I’ve seen your scars, your burns. How often do you lie down to sleep and wonder if you should have just stayed in Battery City? 70-degree weather, clean water rain four times a month, everyone has a steady job, no one has to worry about staying alive. I can’t imagine why anyone would leave who wasn’t sick in the head.” He leans in close to Michael’s ear. “Or following someone sick in the head.”

“_Stop talking about_—” Michael’s eyes are open again, and he’s glaring out of the corner of his eye, his fists clenched, his teeth bared, and Korse can only grin back at him. It’s only three words, but Michael’s biting his tongue against more, and this is good, this is _too_ good. 

“Your brother, _Gerard_. He led you into the desert, out of the safety of the city, and now, thanks to one of his plans gone wrong, you’re here. Alone, with the enemy. What kind of brother _was_ he? Certainly not one who put your safety over his impossible schemes.”

Michael snarls, and Korse thinks he sees blood in his mouth, either from his tongue or the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sure you took some convincing. You seem fairly rational to me. But he probably exploited that bond, told you to come join him because he _loved_ you, and if you didn’t follow him it meant you didn’t _love_ him.” He clicks his tongue in mock-sympathy. “That doesn’t sound like a healthy relationship to me—“

“_Shut the fuck up!_” 

For the first time since he was taken, Michael struggles against his restraints. He’s red in the face, his teeth are smeared with blood, and he’s wrenching and pulling at the white leather on his limbs with a force nearly as impressive as Fun Ghoul’s. 

Korse laughs, honestly surprised. “Did I touch a nerve? I was only making a guess, Michael. I suppose I’m right?”

“_That’s not how it_—“ Michael bites his tongue again, and his teeth get a little redder. Korse can see him mentally berating himself, _Don’t give in, don’t give in, he’s playing with you_, and he has to push on before Michael can convince himself to be calm again.

“I am, aren’t I? He took advantage of you. He needed another person—for bait, for backup, for numbers—and you were easy to convince.”

“_Shut up!_” Michael strains up before thumping his head back on the table. “Shut up, shut up, shut _up!_”

Korse decides to leave it at that, and he stands up, turning to the guard. “No treatment tonight. Food, water, he can sleep for an hour before I come by tomorrow.”

He takes one last look at Michael’s face before he leaves—shocked and furious and lacking all the stoicism he’d put on before. 

Progress.

~

“You’re not getting anywhere with him.”

“I have his name, his brother’s name, I should have the names of the other two soon enough.”

“Yes, wonderful, names, we could have gotten those ages ago if we really tried. I want facts. Hideouts, other allies, plans of attack.”

“I’m starting small. He’s not going to talk about their deepest secrets unless he trusts me a bit more.”

“_Trusts_ you? He’s not going to _trust_ you at all, you’re enemies. I know you’re having fun with your little mind games, but that’s not why we take people in. Get the facts, torture them out of him if you have to, and then kill him before his friends show up and try to save him, like they always do when we take one.”

“Just give me some time. I’ll get what you want.”

“You’d better. Unless you want me to put you back in shutdown and have someone more efficient do the job?”

“…No, ma’am.”

~

“Michael.”

Michael stirs from the sleep he was barely allowed to slip into, and he blinks at Korse with only some recognition on his face.

“Wake up. I have a few more questions for you today.”

Michael shuts his eyes.

“That’s not going to help, you know. In fact, I think I like it better when you can’t see.” He nods at the guard, then grabs a handful of Michael’s obnoxiously blond hair to lift up his head as the guard ties a mask over his eyes. 

Michael struggles, but he’s clearly exhausted, so the mask goes on easily. 

“You don’t need to see, anyway. All you do when I come here is stare at the ceiling.” He walks in a circle around the table, listening to his voice echo through the room, wondering what it must sound like for Michael. 

He eventually slaps his hands on the end of the table, smiling when Michael starts at the noise. “Now then. Today, we’re going to talk about your friends again.”

“_Fuck you_.” Evidently Michael’s given up on the silent act. Good.

“Don’t be uncooperative. You can answer my questions now, or you can answer my questions in between shocks.”

“_Never_.”

“Ah, so you want me to skip straight to the shocks. Not the choice I would have picked, but you Killjoys do make some peculiar decisions.” He motions to the guard to start hooking him up to the machine.

It’s the same as usual, with the addition of Michael’s limited vocabulary. 

“Do you know where the other Killjoys are right now?” 

“_Fuck you_.” 

“Up another level.”

Michael screams.

“Any place they might be? Common meeting spots, hideouts, shelters?”

“_Fuck. You_.”

“Up another level.”

Another scream, and Michael’s whole body twitches and writhes.

“This ends if you just give us one useful word, Michael. The name of a place, or the name of another Killjoy, anything, and this will stop.”

Michael spits in Korse’s direction and misses by a foot.

“Up another level.”

“_I won’t fucking_—“ Another scream.

“Just one word. Just one, and it’ll be gone. I’ll even bring you some food. Real food, meat, maybe fruit, not just kibble. Would you like that?”

“_Go to hell!_”

“Another level.”

Michael swears through the next shock, consonants slurring and clashing, and he’s still gasping out a steady stream of _Fuck you, fuck you_, once it’s over. 

It’s time to switch tactics, back to something he knows will work. “Who are you protecting here? Your friends, your companions, your _brother?_”

Michael bites his tongue again. He still does this sometimes, tries to keep himself from letting out a single word, even when he must know that the barrier of silence he’d tried to construct is already in shambles. 

“You’re certainly not helping yourself, hiding anything from us,” Korse continues. “You’re only taking the fall for your so-called _friends_, the ones who allowed you to be taken in the first place so they could live another day. _You_ get tied down, _you_ go through the treatment, _you’re_ subject to interrogation, while they continue to cavort around in the desert, only sorry that they’ve lost a good piece of bait. It’s sad, really, that someone could put his own brother through these trials—“

“_You shut the fuck up about my brother!_” Michael starts thrashing against his restraints again, and Korse nods to the guard to give him another shock. Michael’s curses morph into another cry of pain, but he stops moving once it’s over, only his chest heaving.

“That’s the first time you’ve acknowledged that Gerard is your brother, you know.”

Michael tenses, then wilts. He knows he’s made a mistake. 

“I’m glad you’re comfortable enough to admit that kind of secret to me.” He manages to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice, but Michael still snarls and tugs on his restraints. 

Korse sits down by the table, leaning in close and speaking softly. “I’d like to hear more about him. Has he always been preaching to you about his radical ideas? Was he the one who convinced you to come to those Wave-Head clubs with him?”

“_No_,” Michael hisses, and then bites back down on his tongue hard enough that it starts to bleed again. Korse is really going to have to figure out a way to make him stop that.

“No? You decided to start going to the clubs all on your own?” He pauses for a moment, considering. “Most of those kids, though, they don’t become revolutionaries. It’s only some silly teenage rebellion; I’m sure even your parents had a phase like that. _Gerard_, though, Gerard took it to an extreme.” He sighs, letting his breath blow in Michael’s ear. “You only wanted to have some fun, listen to illegal music, go off the pills for a few days, but your brother wanted to topple the social order. You thought you were just taking the next step, doing the right thing, but really—“

“I’m not listening to you,” Michael says suddenly, and it’s the calmest he’s ever sounded when speaking to Korse. “I’m not listening to you, because you’re trying to turn me against my friends, and you’re just making up bullshit about me and about them, and it’s _not going to work_.”

It’s the most he’s said in one sitting in his time here, and though the words should be disheartening, the fact that he’s completely abandoned the silence he’d started out with is definitely significant. Korse smiles.

“You deny it, then? If your brother hadn’t convinced you, you would have left the city anyway?”

“_Yes_. I’d rather be zapping Dracs than pushing buttons in a nitro factory any day of the week.”

“Then why is he the leader of your little group? Why aren’t you?”

Michael doesn’t answer. It doesn’t look like he’s biting anything back, either.

“Well? If you’re so strong in your convictions, why aren’t you the one leading your little rebellion?”

“I—“ Michael looks troubled, even with the mask on. Perfect.

“Your brother thought of it first. You might have had your own ideas, but he pushed on them until they agreed with his. He even convinced you that both of your ideas had been in agreement all along. He _manipulated_ you, Michael.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Michael spits, but his voice is cracking.

“Up three levels.”

Michael barely has time to gasp his surprise before he’s crying out again, his lips moving in the shapes of words but his tongue not quite catching up, and by the time the shock’s over he’s only able to moan out vague vowel sounds. 

Korse stands up. “Six hours, then food and water, then he can sleep.” The guard nods and starts to switch off the machine. 

Michael lifts his head up, turning in Korse’s direction, but he doesn’t say anything beyond a choked noise. Korse leaves without another word.

Progress? For himself, maybe. Hopefully he can convince his superiors of the same.

~

“One more week, one more week and I _promise_, I’ll have something.”

“_Something_ isn’t enough. I want _everything_. Tear it out of him with your bare hands, if you have to.”

“It takes time, breaking someone down, especially someone as determined as Michael. But I’ve almost got him, just another week, _please_.”

“Five days. Five days, and if we don’t get anything by then, someone else will be doing the job.”

“I need more—very well. Five days, and you’ll have your answers.”

“Stop getting caught up in playing with your victim. This is worse than when we had Party Poison, and we all know how that turned out.”

“Gerard. His name’s Gerard Way.”

“Gerard, Party Poison, it doesn’t matter. I just don’t want you latching on to the prisoner when you should be extracting information so you can kill him.”

“Five days, ma’am. Five days, and then we’ll see what we need to do with him.”

~

Korse storms in early the next day and pounds on the table next to Michael’s ear. “Wake up.”

Michael stirs, turning his head to the side. He’s still wearing the mask.

“I just thought I’d let you know that I might be leaving you soon. Within the week, probably.” 

Michael doesn’t answer, just keeps his head tilted in Korse’s direction, waiting for elaboration, his face set back to neutral.

“They’re replacing me. I haven’t been tough enough on you, so they’re going to find someone a bit less…sympathetic to interrogate you.” He sits down, hissing directly into Michael’s ear. “You know what some of the other droids will do to you? I’ve been kind, only putting you through some low-voltage shocks, not letting you eat or sleep for a few days, but the others? They’ll starve you for weeks. They’ll cut off your limbs. They’ll drive needles into your skin, beat you until every bone is broken, tear you apart and only put you back together long enough for you to tell them what they want, and once they have it? They’ll just let you die, no fanfare, probably not even a proper execution, you’ll just bleed out from whatever torture they decide to put you through. Would you really prefer that over how I’ve been treating you so far?”

Michael flinches away every few words, but he doesn’t respond. Korse sighs, bringing a hand to Michael’s forehead in a mockery of comfort.

“You’re going to have to accept that I’m the most trustworthy person you’re going to find in this place.” He lets his hand smooth down Michael’s hair. “I’m just following orders. I don’t want you dead, but my superiors have other plans. Just listen to me, and I can make sure you come out of this alive and safe.”

Michael doesn’t quite relax into the touch, but he doesn’t struggle against it, either. Korse keeps his hand in his hair. “What do you think? Are you going to cooperate? Or are you going to wait until you’re nearly dead to do it?”

Michael makes a noncommittal noise. 

“I’m going to need an answer out of you, Michael. You know what to expect from me. You’re taking a risk with anyone else.”

Michael’s silent for a long moment, but then he starts, his voice still heavy with sleep: “…What do you want?”

Korse smiles, running his fingers through his hair. “Not much. Little facts, names of people, places, even something as broad as which zones the Killjoys frequent most.” He leans in closer, voice barely a whisper. “You don’t need to tell me everything. The longer this draws out, the better it is for both of us, you see. Even a lie or two is all right.”

Michael starts to ask something, but Korse sits up and speaks over him. “So. One fact, and I’ll forgo the shocks today. I might even argue for my replacement not to occur.”

He waits a full minute of silence before turning to the guard. “I guess we’ll be—“

“Tommy Chow Mein.”

Korse looks back at him. “…Excuse me?”

“We get most of our supplies from a guy called Tommy Chow Mein. Find him, and you might find the others.”

Korse nods at the guard, who goes running out the door to pass on the information, and then puts his hand back in Michael’s hair. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Michael just hums again. 

He puts out an order to give Michael a real apple to eat along with his kibble, and then lets him sleep for seven hours that night. 

He hadn’t expected it to be this easy. But, progress is progress.

~

“They’re never going to find this Tommy character, are they?” he whispers in Michael’s ear, petting his hair again. 

Michael smirks. “No.”

“Does he even exist? Or did you make him up on the spot?”

“I won’t tell.”

Korse can’t find it in himself to be angry. His superiors have been chasing the lead all night and all morning, looking for documentation, searching through radio transmissions, plotting out searches in each zone. It’s amazing, what one fact from a stubborn prisoner means to people. 

“You made the right choice, cooperating with me. Now, would you like to tell me anything today?”

“Fuck no. You got your lead yesterday, leave me alone for a while.”

Korse takes his hand off Michael’s head. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

Michael frowns the second the contact is gone. “I’m cooperating, aren’t I? We’re working together to get what we both want.”

Korse clicks his tongue and shakes his head, though he knows Michael won’t see it. “You don’t honestly think you can set the terms here, do you? You’re my _prisoner_, not my colleague.” He puts his hand back in Michael’s hair, but he tightens his fingers this time, tugging on the longer strands and lifting up his head. “Now, let’s try this again. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“_No_,” he hisses through gritted teeth. 

Korse slams Michael’s head on the table, watching his face contort in surprise and pain. 

“I was kind to you yesterday, but if you’re going to expect that every day, you’re going to be disappointed. _Give me another name_.”

Michael shakes his head, trying to twist out of Korse’s grip. Korse slams his head down again. “Your friends, Jet Star, Fun Ghoul, _Gerard_, they aren’t coming to save you, you know. Is that why you’re being so stubborn? You think they’re going to storm the city any moment and rescue you from here?” He tugs on Michael’s hair, hard. “There hasn’t been any activity from them since you were taken here, you know. No attempts to attack, no sightings. They’re probably out looking for a replacement. _No one will save you_.”

Michael doesn’t respond except for a grunt when Korse pulls his hair again. 

“You don’t have many options here. You can be tortured to death, or you can answer my questions and stay alive. _Make the choice_.” He lets Michael’s head drop heavily on the table.

Michael takes a few breaths, and Korse lets him consider. It can’t be that difficult a choice, even for someone as stubborn as him.

“…You’re wrong,” Michael finally mutters. “They’re going to save me. I don’t need to tell you anything, they’re going to—“

“You already gave me one name. You’ve given up, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“I didn’t—“

“They’re tracking your Tommy Chow Mein right now. They’ve already found traces on the radio waves, you weren’t just bluffing. You cooperated with me because you know, you _know_ it’s the better option. Now just give me a little more of what I want, and I won’t have to hurt you again.”

“I’m not—“

“_You’re alone_. You’re locked up in a little white box with no one but yourself, and I’m your only chance at survival. Give up, Michael.”

Michael opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s tense, his fists clenching and releasing, but he doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Korse waits.

“...There’s a diner. In Zone 2.”

Korse grins. “Go on.”

“It’s…kind of a meeting place for them—us. For us. You’ll probably find something there.”

“Thank you,” Korse says quietly, and nods at the guard.

Michael turns his head away, and his body tenses like he wants to curl up, but the restraints prevent it. Korse sweeps his bangs out of his face, but doesn’t let his hand linger. 

“They’re going to come,” Michael mutters, but he doesn’t sound so certain. 

~

There’s no diner in Zone 2, but there are several in some other zones, so they start sending SCARECROW units outwards. Korse should be asking him to give him the _right_ zone this time, descriptions, exact directions, but—

“Are they still replacing you?” Michael asks when Korse enters the room. He doesn’t ask how Michael can tell it’s him, when he hasn’t been able to see for days.

“I don’t think so,” he says when he’s by Michael’s side. He leans down to whisper so the guard and the bugs in the room don’t hear: “You sent them running across the whole desert for me, didn’t you?”

“Like _hell_ I did it for you,” Michael spits, but it’s defensive. 

Korse just smiles and places a hand on his head, scratching a bit behind Michael’s ear. “You can deny it all you want, but you’re helping me a lot. It’s sweet of you.”

Michael doesn’t say anything.

“I’m thinking of taking the mask off,” he says conversationally. “Would you like that? I’ll make you a deal. Give me one of your friends’ names, and I’ll take off the mask. Give me nothing, and I’ll block out your hearing, too.”

Michael frowns. He’s considering—_considering_, not just straight-up refusing to hand over any information. 

But it doesn’t last long. “Fuck that.”

Korse motions to the guard, who hands him the headphones he’d ordered to be ready for this situation. Michael doesn’t struggle as he slips them over his ears. He’s tested them himself; they’ll block out all sound except for his own voice, and even that will be muffled. 

Michael hums quietly, snaps his fingers, tests out what he can and can’t hear. Normal behavior. Korse flicks a switch on the right ear, and smiles as Michael starts. He’s put a loop of white noise through the headphones, drowning out even Michael’s own voice in his head. 

He’s completely alone.

Korse sits down and waits. Michael’s stubborn, he could take a while to respond, but he’s been deprived of sleep, food, and sight for the better part of a week. He’ll break.

It doesn’t take long.

“…Are you still there?” Michael asks, and it’s too loud—he has no idea what’s coming out of his mouth. 

Korse smiles.

“You are, aren’t you?” Michael turns his head left and right, as if it will help him see. “You wouldn’t leave me alone like this, you’re waiting for me to tell you everything.” His voice goes up and down inconsistently, between the uncertainty of the volume and the way Michael’s fear is starting to show itself.

Korse doesn’t move. 

Michael stays quiet for a while, apparently remembering his usual tactic of staying silent against all of Korse’s treatments. It’s about twenty minutes before he speaks again.

“…Is anyone there?”

Korse chuckles.

“There’s a guard still there, right? You guys never leave me alone. Gotta watch me all the time, make sure I don’t escape.” His voice gets louder. He’s probably trying to hear himself. “Unless you have me on camera. Is that what Korse does when he’s not in here, just watches me lie here from another room? Creepy, dude.” He laughs. His voice cracks.

“Someone’s always fucking watching me, right? I could get out if you turn your head. Watch me.” He starts straining against the straps on his arms, twisting and tugging. Nothing comes of it, of course.

“I think this one’s loose!” he calls out suddenly. “Gonna rebind me?” 

The guard starts to step over, but Korse holds up a hand. 

“What’s with this, anyway? Got tired of just hurting me until I talk? You giving up? Pussy torture, that’s what this is.”

It won’t be long, now.

“…No, seriously, is anyone there?”

Not long at all.

“Someone?”

Korse leans in closer, making sure not to let his breath fall on Michael’s skin.

“…Just let me know someone’s there? This is just…weird.”

Michael starts squirming again, but this time, he’s not trying to escape. “Fucking…anyone?”

Michael stretches his hands out as far as they can go, grasping at air. “Can’t exactly interrogate me if you’re not there, can you?” His voice grows more and more panicked. “Come on, just tell me you’re there.”

“I’m here,” Korse says, because why not? Michael can’t hear him.

“Fuck…fucking…” Michael squirms again. “_Please_, all right? Please, just, tell me someone’s there, tell me I’m not _alone_.” He makes a low moaning noise that might be involuntary, and the squirming turns into shaking. “_Please_.”

He’s never begged before. Not during the shocks, not during the interrogation, never. Progress, progress, _progress_.

“Someone, _please_, just take them off, I can’t do this, _take them off_.” The shaking gets worse, involuntary tremors mixing with attempts to get out of the restraints. “I’ll talk, I’ll fucking talk, okay, just _please_—“

Korse snatches off the headphones, and Michael gasps out something that sounds like _thank you_.

“Your companions’ names?”

“Frank and Ray, there, just don’t do that again, _don’t do that again_.”

“That sounded like an order, Michael. Are you giving me orders?”

“No, no si—no. _Please_ don’t do that again.”

“Better.” He hands off the headphones to the guard before starting to undo the blindfold. 

Michael shuts his eyes against the light, light he hasn’t seen in days, and Korse puts a hand in his hair, brushing back his bangs. “I was there the whole time, Michael. You weren’t alone.”

“…Oh,” he says, and then stays quiet for a while, the shaking slowly subsiding as Korse pets his hair. 

“Frank and Ray…which one’s which?”

Michael doesn’t open his eyes, and his voice is still a little shaky when he says, “Fun Ghoul…that’s Frank, and Ray’s Jet Star.” He speaks slowly and quietly, obviously aware that he’s betraying his friends. 

Korse keeps his hand in Michael’s hair until he falls asleep, exhausted. Korse stands up to tell the guard to start putting names through the database.

~

“We just wanted to make things right,” Michael’s saying, pushing his head against Korse’s hand a little. “You guys, BLI, you take everything out of life. There’s no color in the city, no emotion, no _fun_.”

Korse doesn’t doubt that if he were saying the same words a week ago, Michael would be spitting them in his face. Right now, it almost sounds like casual conversation. 

“It’s necessary,” Korse says, scratching behind Michael’s ear until he hums. “Order must be maintained. Emotions only contribute to inefficiency and dysfunction.”

“But—“

“Imagine a city full of you Killjoys. How long do you think you would last?”

Michael doesn’t answer for a while, just shuts his eyes and occasionally makes a noise when Korse does something with his hair.

“What about the people?” he asks after a while. “Shouldn’t they get to decide whether or not they get to be happy?”

“And have an entire section of the population unmedicated and unproductive? That’s not going to work in this day and age. We need an efficient workforce for everyone to stay alive.”

Michael’s quiet again, either because he can’t find an argument against him, or because Korse is playing with the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“What are you going to tell me today?” Korse asks after a few minutes of silence, stilling his hand but not moving it away.

“I don’t know what you want.” Not _Fuck no_, not _Make me_. _I don’t know what you want_.

“Actually,” Korse says, leaning down to whisper. “Tell me a lie today. You don’t want to run out of things to tell me too soon.”

Michael nods. 

A unit’s sent out after some imaginary Killjoy hideout, and Korse spends the rest of the day chatting with Michael. He seems like he’s starting to understand BL/ind a little better.

~

Even after the false trail Michael gave them, Korse isn’t replaced. He’s still on duty another week later, questioning him for a little while each morning, and then just talking until he decides to let Michael sleep. He’s been fed regularly since giving Korse the names of the other Killjoys.

Michael’s started brightening whenever Korse walks in each morning. He doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a definite hint that he’s hiding one, and he melts into Korse’s touch the second he puts a hand in his hair. 

There’s still no trust between them. Michael will talk back if given enough freedom to do so, and Korse never holds back threats to take away his food or put the blindfold back on, but most of the time, he’s docile. Korse hasn’t put him through any treatment in the past week, just runs his fingers through his hair and talks to him until the answers come out as if in conversation. 

(Korse tries not to think about the day when he’s going to be ordered to kill Michael.)

~

“You’re becoming attached.”

“No, I’m not. He’s becoming attached to me. I’m just using that to my advantage.”

“That’s what you thought about Poison, and look what happened there. He still lies when you’re interrogating him, you can’t trust anything he says or does.”

“You’ve never questioned anyone over a long period of time, have you? You start to learn about the subject, like—“

“Like you’re old friends? This is getting ridiculous. Squeeze everything that’s left out of him, and then shoot him. We still can’t find the other Killjoys, but maybe sending out a transmission of their dead friend will shut them up, or at least scare others who want to join them.”

“Actually, keeping him alive would—“

“No. I want him finished with by next week.”

“And then?”

“And then you’re going back to your box.”

~

“Something’s wrong.”

Korse looks down at Michael from where he was staring at the wall. “Oh?”

“I can tell. You’re upset.”

Korse raises an eyebrow. Michael’s looking up at him with what looks like genuine _concern_.

He shrugs and concentrates back on Michael’s hair. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. My superiors aren’t happy with how much progress I’ve made with you.”

“I’ve told you everything you—“

“Everything I ask for, I know. Apparently that’s not enough.”

Michael shuts his eyes and sighs as Korse pushes his bangs out of his face again. “…Why do you need to draw this out?”

Korse stops his hand.

“You told me…we were helping each other,” Michael continues. “Is there a reason you need me to take as long as possible to talk?”

Korse hesitates for a moment, glancing at the guard behind him, then leans down next to Michael’s ear. “When I’m not being used, they shut me down. Put me in a box until I have another job. I enjoy being able to move on my own for a while, that’s all.”

Michael opens his eyes. “That’s awful,” he whispers.

Korse nods.

~

“I’m keeping him.”

“_Korse_.”

“He’ll make good bait. If we kill him, the Killjoys will go underground. If we keep him, they’ll try to save him. They’ve probably been planning a rescue already.”

“Fine, we can use him as bait. But you said _you’re_ keeping him.”

“…That’s all I meant. I’ll keep watch over him constantly. He trusts me more than he would a normal guard, he won’t try to escape.”

“You can’t stay out forever, you realize. There’s a reason we have a stasis chamber for you.”

“I’m only telling you what would be the best course of action. It’s the most efficient way to get rid of the Killjoys.”

“Mm. We’ll see what happens, then. But once the others are captured, he’s getting executed right along with them.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

~

Michael’s asleep when Korse walks in the next morning, and Korse tries to stay quiet as he motions to the guard to help him undo the leather straps around his legs. 

When he works his way up to start releasing his arms, Michael starts to stir. 

“What—“ he starts, but Korse shushes him and unbinds his left wrist, holding it down once the strap is loose. 

“Don’t struggle. Don’t move unless I tell you to. We’re both armed and won’t hesitate to shoot.”

Michael doesn’t move. 

The guard releases the last strap, on his shoulder, and Korse rubs where there will probably be a mark. “Sit up. Slowly, now.”

Korse helps him up, one hand on his back, the other motioning to the guard, who nods and hands him an unassuming white collar. 

“You’re being moved to another room,” he says as he starts fastening the collar around his neck. “You won’t be able to leave the building wearing this. If you escape, I can flip a switch and run thousands of volts through you until I find you again. Understand?”

Michael nods. 

“All right, off the table.” Korse runs a hand through his hair, and Michael hums. 

Michael’s new room is smaller than the interrogation room, but it has a panel that lets him order food and water at any time, twice a day, and a pill dispenser stocked with most of the varieties available to employees. There’s even an attached washroom, to replace the machines that have been taking care of him on the table.

Korse explains all this slowly, and he has to tap him on the shoulder to catch his attention sometimes, when he gets distracted fiddling with the collar. When he’s finished giving a tour of the room, he touches a hand to Michael’s throat. “There’s a bio-lock on that. I’m the only one who can take it off.” He slips a finger between the collar and his skin and runs it along the back of Michael’s neck, making him shiver. “You’re not just a prisoner anymore. You’re _my_ prisoner.”

Michael nods.

~

He doesn’t need to ask Michael much anymore—his superiors have apparently decided that he’s told them just about all he can, and he’s nothing but Killjoy-bait now—so when Korse goes to see him each morning, there’s not much to the conversation.

“Have you taken any pills, Michael?”

“No.” He’s telling the truth. Korse watches Michael on camera after he leaves for the night, always able to find an excuse to stay out of the box, and Michael spends most of his time sitting or lying down, occasionally getting up for food and water.

“Why not?”

“Don’t need them. I stopped taking them after I left the city, I’m not going back to them if I have a choice.”

Korse makes a noncommittal noise. Michael’s lying on his bed, Korse sitting next to him and running his fingers through his hair. Nothing’s changed, really.

“And what if I told you to take them?”

Michael doesn’t answer. 

Korse moves his hand to the back of his neck. “Well?”

Michael opens his mouth, shuts it, bites his lip, then finally asks, “Are you going to?”

Korse smiles, bringing his hand back to his scalp. “I think they might help you. You’re going to be here for a while, and I’m sure you’re under a lot of stress.”

“Mm.” Michael doesn’t disagree.

“But, I won’t make you. That’s a personal preference.”

“Right.”

They sit in silence for a while, Korse’s hand never leaving Michael’s hair.

~

Michael takes one synthetic happiness capsule the next morning. 

It’s the cheap kind, the kind every citizen of the city is required by law to take daily, but it does its job. For the first time, Michael’s smiling when Korse enters the room, staring contentedly at the ceiling. When he notices Korse, his smile only widens.

“I see you took my advice.”

Michael nods, somehow enthusiastic and subdued at once. It’s a normal enough reaction to the medication. 

They settle back into their normal routine—Michael lying down, Korse talking and touching—and Michael can’t seem to stop smiling with every move he makes. Of course he can’t, that’s what the medication’s supposed to do, but Korse isn’t used to Michael being in a constant state of showing emotion, even false emotion.

It’s interesting. Korse spends the whole day testing out new reactions, a scratch here, a stroke of his fingers there, and Michael offers him a whole new set of sounds and movements. When he lets his hand dip down to start fiddling with the collar, Michael goes still, a contented sigh choked back.

Hm. He slips a finger under the front of the collar and tugs, only a little, but Michael’s eyes widen as he’s pulled upwards. 

“_Mine_,” he whispers into Michael’s ear, before he can stop himself. 

Michael nods.

~

He takes the same pill the next day, though he doesn’t look quite as reluctant when he’s swallowing it down. The mildly addictive component in the capsule probably contributes towards that.

“I’ve stopped dreaming,” Michael’s saying quietly, eyes shut, head pressing into Korse’s hand. “Did you know that?”

“No,” Korse says, and he’s honestly surprised. He’s never heard that out of one of his prisoners before.

“Yeah. First, I started dreaming all in pastels. Then it was black and white for a while. Now, nothing.” 

It’s impossible to tell just how Michael feels about this, so he finally asks: “Do you miss the dreams?”

Michael shakes his head immediately. “They were always about the desert. About being on the run, trying not to get ghosted. I don’t miss that anymore.” 

_Anymore_.

“You’d rather be here than there?” Korse asks carefully, not entirely sure what kind of answer to expect.

Michael doesn’t seem to know how to answer it, either. He shuts his eyes and thinks for a while as Korse rubs his thumb around his ear.

Finally he says, “It’s safer here.” And that’s all the answer he needs, really.

~

There’s nothing special about the day it happens.

“Good morning, Michael,” he says as he walks in, and Michael’s smiling at him again, eyes full of familiarity and relief and chemical contentment. 

They don’t speak after that, and Korse settles into his chair next to Michael’s bed, the one that never really moves from its spot. His hand goes to Michael’s hair once they’ve both found their usual positions, and Michael sighs.

Then, Korse’s thumb comes near Michael’s lips as he brushes his hair away, and Michael pokes out his tongue to lick it. Korse raises an eyebrow, but keeps his thumb there, watching him, wondering if it will happen again.

Michael starts to suck his thumb into his mouth. 

He lets him for a few seconds, lets him lick and suck the pad of his thumb before pulling it back and replacing it with his first two fingers. It’s a better angle now, better for thrusting deep into Michael’s mouth.

“_Suck_,” Korse hisses in his ear, and Michael sucks hard without question, his tongue teasing between the two fingers until Korse spreads them apart, watching Michael’s lips stretch and humming at the feel of Michael’s tongue against the soft skin between them.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Korse asks softly, and Michael makes a low noise around his fingers. “You’ve been here for nearly a month and haven’t even taken any sex-suppression pills. And I can’t imagine all that much happening in the desert. A companion bot here and there, maybe.”

He keeps one hand occupied with Michael’s mouth, but the other hand starts to go for his collar, pulling at the back until Michael’s making choked noises. “How much do you want this?”

Michael _whines_, his breath coming out in short bursts around his fingers, his hips suddenly bucking up, and it’s only now that Korse notices just how much he _does_ want this, how much strain there is on the fabric of his loose prisoner’s pants. 

Korse doesn’t make a move to help him. Suddenly his fingers are out of his mouth and he’s tugging the collar forward instead of backward, leading Michael to sit up and start to climb off the bed. He stays in his own chair and lets Michael do all the work, and once he’s tugged Michael to his knees in front of him, he draws his gun and holds it at his side before telling Michael, “Take off the holster.”

Michael complies, removing the holster with the ease of someone who wields a gun just as much as he does, and sets it on the ground next to him.

“You know what to do next?” Korse asks with a smirk, leaning back in the chair and idly looking at the gun in his hand. Michael starts working on his pants.

Korse doesn’t take sex-suppression pills. His status gives him exemption, and hasn’t needed to control himself for years—not like the other employees who illegally skip pills and end up getting caught in storage closets—and he’s found it very useful to avoid them when he has a prisoner.

(_Don’t think about Poison_)

So when Michael’s got his pants open and starts licking the head of his cock, he’s just as capable of wanting it as Michael, but there’s no urgency, no pressure. 

He keeps the hand not holding his gun on the back of Michael’s head, gently pressing him forward until his lips are wrapped around his hardening cock. Korse tilts his head back and hums his approval, which seems to encourage Michael enough to start taking him down, inch by inch, until he has almost the entirety of Korse’s cock in his mouth and a little down his throat. Korse can’t suppress a small groan in the back of his throat as Michael starts to bob his head.

(_Don’t think about Poison, don’t think about Poison_)

“How many times have you done this?” He tightens the hand in Michael’s hair, and Michael gasps around him. “To all the Wave-Heads in those bars, to people you’ve met in the desert, maybe to some of your Killjoy friends?” Michael maneuvers his tongue in a way that only proves Korse’s point—he _knows_ how to do this.

“You must have a lot of practice,” he croons, setting the gun on the bed beside him (out of Michael’s reach, he’s still not trusting a prisoner) and putting his other hand on the back of Michael’s head. “Taking it like this, you’ve been doing this for _years_.”

Michael takes him all the way down, and Korse pulls him back up by the hair, getting a sharp noise of surprise as Michael’s eyes flutter open to stare up at him. Korse only smiles and pulls him back down, not quickly, but with intent.

Michael lets go, his shoulders going limp as Korse brings his head up, down, up, down, only his lips and tongue moving voluntarily. He’s making noise the whole time, little gasps and moans every time Korse tugs on his hair on top of the wet, obscene sucking noises. Korse can feel himself getting closer, but there’s no rush.

Michael stares up at him through his lashes almost the whole time, eyes wide but dulled by arousal and medication.

Korse considers starting to speak again, but there’s really nothing to say, nothing that can top the fact that he’s _using_ Michael’s mouth like this, both hands tangled in his hair, and Michael’s groaning like _he’s_ the one being touched.

(_Don’t think about Poison, don’t think about Poison_)

One of his hands lets go of his hair to slide down to the back of his collar, slipping two fingers underneath and pulling until Michael’s making those choked-off noises again, not quite out of air but not able to breath normally. Korse keeps the other hand pushing on Michael’s head, smiling down at him with what he hopes looks at least somewhat like warmth. 

“_Mine_.”

He pulls Michael all the way off his cock with the hand holding the collar, and Michael stares at him for a few moments before gasping out, “_Yours_.”

Korse takes his hand out of Michael’s hair and starts stroking himself, the glide easy with saliva, and Michael seems to understand what he’s about to do, because his eyes widen for a moment before he shuts them, waiting. 

(_Don’t think about Poison, don’t think about Poison, **don’t think about Poison**_)

His hips jerk involuntarily in his seat, and he comes, striping white across Michael’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Michael opens his eyes after the last spurt hits his chin, his mouth slightly open, and it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever seen since—

(_Don’t think about Poison_)

“_Please_,” Michael gasps, still out of breath from the pressure on his throat, and Korse lets go, throwing Michael off balance until he’s sitting on his heels and staring up at Korse with painful-looking desperation.

“Finish yourself off,” Korse says slowly, starting to do his pants back up. Michael nods furiously and shoves a hand down his own pants, pulling down on the loose material as quickly as he can with the other hand and never taking his eyes off Korse.

It doesn’t take long; it’s barely a minute before Michael’s gasping and coming over his hand, and Korse watches him shake through it. He goes limp when it’s over, his head falling forward as he catches his breath. 

Korse stands up and re-fastens his holster before putting the gun back in its place, then finds a clean spot on Michael’s chin and tips it up, smiling down at him. Michael smiles back, hazily.

“Clean yourself up.”

Michael nods and starts to stand up, heading to the washroom. Korse leaves the room once he’s shut the door.

He makes a mental note to erase today’s security footage. But not before making a copy for himself, of course.

~

The next few days go by normally, nothing but the usual idle chatter and soft touches, but there’s an odd look in Michael’s eyes. Expectant. Waiting. 

Korse makes him wait. His hands wander around Michael’s whole head and neck, but he never pushes further, even when Michael tries to mouth at his fingers again. Michael looks like he wants to speak up sometimes, but he never does, except to carry on the conversation.

Then, one completely ordinary morning, Korse opens the door, takes one look at Michael’s synthetically smiling face, and says simply, “Knees.”

Michael practically jumps off the bed to comply. 

~

He fucks Michael once, tells him to get on his hands and knees and spreads him open with the help of something confiscated from a pill-skipping lawbreaker before sinking into him to the sounds of _more_ and _please_ and _yes_.

Michael’s good at keeping still, if not quiet, and he lets Korse hold him wherever he likes and take whatever he wants without asking for anything but _more_. Korse comes inside him with a sharp exhale that might have started out as a name, and then whispers permission for Michael to stroke himself off before letting him collapse on the bed. 

Michael rolls over after Korse has pulled out, staring up at him from between Korse’s arms. Then he lifts himself up, tilts his head, and kisses him gently.

Korse pulls back immediately, and it’s barely seconds before he’s off the bed, tucking himself back into his pants and telling Michael to clean himself up. Michael stares at him silently for a few moments, but he obeys.

He doesn’t do it again after that, preferring to take Michael’s mouth and leave. 

(_Don’t think about Poison_)

~

“There’s been some recent Killjoy activity in Zone 1.”

“Hm. Are you going to send a unit after them?”

“Normally, you’d be jumping at the first chance to chase them yourself.”

“I have a prisoner to take care of.”

“They’ll be easier to deal with once they’re closer, anyway. Let them come to us. That was your plan, right?”

“Right. Lure them here, take them out with our full force. I told you it would work.”

“And your problem-solving skills will be commended. But right now, you’re going to go back to your precious prisoner and wait until the Killjoys arrive. I’ll expect you to be on the front lines when they do.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

~

They actually attempt a bit of stealth this time, which is unusual. Most attempts to take back their lost comrades involve storming the building, guns blazing, color flying everywhere. 

This time, there’s a knock on the door.

“Open,” Korse says to the door mechanism, and there’s a masked guard, no different than the others.

Except that when this guard sees them, Korse running his fingers through Michael’s hair while Michael sighs and smiles contentedly, he recoils, draws a familiar painted yellow gun, and shouts, “_Get your fucking hands off him!_”

Korse complies, but only to jump out of his seat and start firing his own gun at the imposter, who’s shooting back while working his way into the room with two other disguised invaders. 

The gunfire sets off an alarm, meaning Korse will only have to hold them off for a few minutes before an army of Draculoids show up to back him up. But they’re in a cramped space, and it’s three against one, and he’s trying to shoot three different targets while avoiding another, and—

His leg seizes up with the familiar burn of a raygun blast, and he falls sideways, arm still outstretched and shooting. One of the invaders has switched gun arms and another is holding his side gingerly, but otherwise, they’re winning.

There’s a bright yellow gun against his head, and Korse can see the vague outline of a snarl under the skintight mask. The other two are trying to get Michael to stand up, ignoring his protests of “No, stop—“ and “I don’t want to—“

Then the one with the yellow gun whispers, “You’ll fucking _pay_ for this,” and puts his finger on the trigger.

Korse smirks, and the world goes dark.

~

“…Am I awake?”

“Don’t move. You’ve been in stasis for a day. I’m only waking you up to let you know you’ll be in shutdown for another month. Maybe two.”

“A blast to the head, that could take some time to heal. I understand.”

“You let them escape. _Again_. They charged through the Draculoids and took back your prisoner. Honestly, it’s starting to get to the point where I wonder if you’re even trying to kill them.”

“I was overpowered.”

“You were in a small room. You could have taken them out in three shots.”

“Hm.”

“You’re going into retraining once you’re healed. Something must be misfiring.”

“Ma’am, that won’t be necess—“

“Don’t question my decisions. You’re going to sleep, now.”

“But—“

“I’ll see you in a month. We can talk about your unusual empathy for prisoners then.”

“…Very well.”

(_Don’t think about_—)


	2. Part 2

“Mikey, keep walking.”

“I can’t leave, I told you, and I don’t _want_—“

“Is it the collar? Shit, Frank, can you get rid of it?”

“On it.”

“Just leave me there, seriously, I’m _fine_—“

“God, what did he _do_ to you?”

“Might be pills. Do we have enough water to help him get through a pill withdrawal?”

“Barely. Call Show Pony once we get out—Frank, you doing all right there?”

“Yeah, just—hold still, Mikes, this might hurt.”

“But I don’t—_agh!_”

“Almost got it, one more—“

“_Agh!_”

“There, all gone. You feeling any better?”

“I didn’t need it off!”

“You’ll thank me later, once you’re not all medded up. Gee, is the car still out there?”

“Surrounded by Dracs, but yeah. Still there.”

“All right. Ray, you take care of him, we’ll take out the armed guard.”

“Got it.”

“Let me _go_, I was fine where I—“

“Shh, Mikey, it’ll be okay. You’re just confused right now. We’ll take you back to the desert, get you off the pills, and you’ll be fine.”

“But—“

“Shh.”

~

He wakes up to soft light, and the first thing he thinks is _Did a bulb go out?_ There’s never any variation in the brightness of the room—it’s either flooded with bright white light, or completely dark when he’s going to sleep. 

Then something stirs behind him and mumbles, “Mikey?” and oh. Oh. He’s not in the room anymore.

He rolls over and sees a sleeping bag—like the one he’s in, which he’s only noticing now—with a mop of red hair at one end. The mop is parted by a hand, and Gerard’s looking at him through his bangs, smiling uncertainly. “How are you feeling?”

“All right.” It’s coming back to him now, bits and pieces. The escape. The fight. Yesterday—_fuck_, yesterday, pain and need and concerned faces and glares and struggle and—

“Just all right?”

“Yeah.” He sits up, looking around at the scene. It’s early morning, judging by the pale sunlight just starting to creep up on his right, and there are two other sleeping bags curled up a few feet away. There’s a dead fire at his feet.

“Better than yesterday?” Gerard wriggles his sleeping bag towards his. “I mean, you’re not still…right?”

“Still what?” He looks around a bit more until his eyes fall on—

Steam and smoke billowing from factories, the wide spread of the Residential Complex, the white towers looming over the whole city—the fifteenth floor of Main Tower Block B, a room at the end of the west hall, white sheets, a smiling figure—

“Mikey?”

He looks back at Gerard, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. “You don’t…that was just the pills, that’s why you wanted to stay. They should be out of your system by now. You never have to go back again.”

He stares for a few moments. “But—“

“_Never_. I don’t know what he did to you, and you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but it’s over now.”

“Oh.” He lets his gaze drift back to the city. “Never?”

“Never. Now—Mikey, seriously, stop that. You’re scaring me.”

He looks away, but he doesn’t look back at Gerard. It doesn’t feel right, following his orders.

~

“Mikey.”

It’s a silly name, anyway. He could have gone with just “Mike.” 

Or he could have stayed with “Michael.”

“Mikey” just sounds like a child’s version of his name. Diminutive. And no one else really goes by it. Why be the exception?

“Mikey?”

It always takes him a few seconds to respond to it, to remember it’s what people call him. 

“Yes?”

“We’re going to be at the diner soon, maybe another day or two. You can rest there for a while, but we can’t stay long. The Dracs found it a little while ago, and we fought them off just fine, but…we’ll be needing a new hideout.”

“Right.”

He misses the pills. The inside of BL/ind was dull and white, but it was familiar. Comfortable. The desert’s just bleak, a wide expanse of sand and dirt and, but he can’t go back, not now.

“We can talk when we get there.” Gerard turns around from the driver’s seat, staring at him nervously.

“Right.” Mikey looks out the window. 

~

Mikey’s always stared off into the desert a lot, waiting for Frank to finish fixing something or Gerard to do the finishing touches on a repainted gun. He doesn’t see why it has to be such a big deal when his gaze happens to fall in the direction of the city more often than not.

Frank and Ray just call his name to get his attention, a nervous look on their faces, but Gerard confronts him about it. 

“You’re really worrying me, Mikey,” he says to him one night, wriggling until their sleeping bags are closer together. 

Mikey doesn’t look at him, still fixed on the white towers in the distance. “Stop worrying, then. I’m fine.”

“You’re always looking back there. You don’t…you can’t actually _miss_ that, right?”

Mikey watches as the lights at the top of Main Tower Block B start to shut off. It must be 2300. 

“Of course not, Gee,” he says, because it’s the easiest answer.

~

The diner’s the same as ever, but with a few extra scorch marks on the walls. Frank and Ray go out to work on the Trans Am, leaving Mikey and Gerard to sit across from each other in one of the booths, Mikey picking at a can of kibble while Gerard stares at him with concern. 

Eventually, Mikey can’t take it anymore, and he sets down the fork without looking up. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s—with _me?_ I was going to ask you that. You haven’t said anything about what happened, and you know you can talk to me about anything.”

Nobody really talks about what happened to them after they’ve been rescued. Mikey remembers Frank being pissed for a while, Ray not really talking for a few weeks, and Gerard being more determined than ever in their cause, but no one ever told stories. So Mikey’s been keeping the tradition, staying quiet about the whole affair, even when one of them looks at him warily and asks, “You want to talk?”

Mikey’s not sure what he’d say, if he let himself.

“It’s nothing,” he finally says, but Gerard’s frown deepens.

“Mikey, you’re fucking _traumatized_, it’s all right to admit it.” Gerard looks hesitant but he’s leaning in a little, like he wants to give him a hug but he’s not sure how he’d react. 

Mikey just shrugs and sinks into the aging cushion of the booth. “It…really wasn’t that bad, Gee.”

“_Not that bad?_” Gerard gapes at him. “Mikey, he—he fucking kidnapped you, probably tortured you, you won’t even _talk_ about any of the shit he did.” 

Mikey still won’t make eye contact. “It’s his _job_. You know when he’s not working they just lock him up in stasis? How shitty is that?”

“You’re—“ Gerard can’t seem to find words for a moment. “You can’t actually _sympathize_ with him. He’s an exterminator. He’s the bad guy.”

“What if he’s not?” Mikey asks quietly, and he knows this is only going to cause trouble, only going to make everyone worry about him more, but he can’t just let it go. “What if we’re just not thinking everything through?”

“Mikey,” Gerard says firmly, reaching across the table to put a hand on his shoulder. Mikey flinches away, but Gerard continues. “I know he…I know he can get in your head. But if it’s us and them, you have to be able to shoot him, no questions asked. Okay?”

“Gee, he—he’s seriously not as bad as we think.” He wasn’t going to try and convince Gerard like this, but maybe, _maybe_, he’ll get it, more than the others would. He knows his brother’s been taken by Korse, knows the way Korse talked about him, those weird almost-fond expressions that would spread across his face when he mentioned him, maybe he’d understand. “And maybe BLI isn’t all bad, they have some good ideas, if they just changed how they did things a little—“

“_Mikey_.” Gerard sounds betrayed. “How can you even—we’re right, they’re wrong, that’s just how it works. There’s no compromise here.”

Mikey starts to inch out of the seat, eyes wide. “You—he was right about you.”

“I—What did he say about me?”

Mikey starts to curl in on himself, flinching when Gerard tries to put a hand on him again. “That you’re just a crazy radical. You aren’t really thinking all this through. If you’d just be reasonable and consider both sides then we could probably—“

“Don’t do this to me, Mikey.” Gerard’s voice is cracking. “Don’t become like them, you’re my baby brother, I _need_ you here.”

_He probably exploited that bond_, Mikey hears, like he’s back there again, tied down and trying to ignore the words that he should have known were true all along. _He manipulated you._

Mikey stands up and walks back outside.

~

He avoids Gerard for a while. He can’t leave—there’s nowhere to go, not even back to the city—but at least he can keep away from Gerard.

Frank always takes Gerard’s side, he knows, so he gets in the habit of staying near Ray. Ray doesn’t ask too many questions. Ray doesn’t stop him from looking at the city in the distance.

Ray kisses him a few nights after they’ve started looking for a new hideout.

It’s nothing special, a peck on the lips after a quiet conversation about what their new hideout should be like, their sleeping bags pressed up against each other, and it’s not surprising. Ray doesn’t even say a word when Mikey starts to crawl out of his own sleeping bag and join Ray in his, just lets Mikey lie on top of him and kiss him again and again, their hips starting to grind against each other.

They’ve done this before. They’ve all done this before, especially after one of them gets taken—easing stress and high emotion through sex is as natural to them as running from a Drac. Maybe it’s from coming out of a lifetime of sex-suppressors, maybe it’s the way they all need to reacquaint themselves with the team after being separated, but it always works. 

They rub off against each other until they’re both sticky and disgusting, and Mikey feels a little better. Definitely more like a Killjoy. 

He’s not sure, but the two feelings seem like they’re in opposition to each other.

~

Kissing Ray becomes a regular occurrence. They’ll park for the night, Frank and Gerard will start setting up camp, and Mikey will look over at Ray, eyebrow cocked.

So they’re kissing again, now, somewhere between the desperate just-escaped sucking or biting and the gentle way Ray slides his lips over Mikey’s the way he always does, the way he did before Mikey was taken. It’s cramped, they’re holding each other up so neither of them fall off the back seat, but the touch is so, so worth it.

“You don’t have to be so careful,” Mikey breathes, taking his hands out of Ray’s hair to cross them above his head, rested against the window of the Trans Am. “Come on, you’re strong enough, hold me down.”

“Mikey—“ he sits up, and Mikey frowns at the loss of contact. Ray looks scared.

“Ray?” Mikey sits up to chase after him, but Ray only backs up further.

“Don’t…don’t do that.” Ray’s looking at him like he just found a dead animal on the side of the road, horrified and sympathetic and nothing he _should_ be feeling right now, what the hell.

“Do what?”

“That…I shouldn’t have done this, it’s not going to help you.” Ray starts to climb out of the car, and Mikey can’t bring himself to stop him. 

~

It’s only a few days before Ray comes back, apologizes, lets Mikey tell him he really doesn’t need to apologize, and they make out in the back of the car again.

Mikey tries not to do whatever it is that made Ray freak out. Maybe he doesn’t like holding people down. Maybe he thinks Mikey’s traumatized, like Gerard said. 

Maybe Ray’s the one who’s traumatized.

“Is it true?” Mikey asks one night, curled up against Ray in his sleeping bag, “What they did to you? He told me, he said he took you—“

“Mikey,” Ray interrupts, putting his face in Mikey’s shoulder, “Can we just…sleep? Please?”

No one really talks about what happened to them, after all.

They come across an abandoned building a few days later, torn up by the wind and sand just enough that the Dracs probably won’t come looking for them there, but sturdy enough to hold them for a while. It’s a nice change from the road.

(Even if the walls aren’t white, the lights aren’t artificial, and there aren’t any dispensers in the walls.)

The building looks like it might have been a shop at one time, with a wide open area on the first floor and living quarters on the second. Frank and Gerard agree to set up camp downstairs and let Mikey and Ray sleep upstairs. Ray starts to argue that they could probably fit four in the bed, they all know how rare it is to find real sheets and pillows, but Frank and Gerard just look at each other before declining.

Mikey’s fine with that.

~

_It’s dark, been dark for days, but this is new, not hearing anything. He snaps his fingers and feels the noise rather than hears it, but when he hums and clicks his tongue he hears that just fine. He can get through this. He’ll be—_

_Suddenly, noise, noise everywhere, and it’s worse than the vague ringing that never leaves his ears, there’s this steady stream of static that’s more cloying than any amount of silence. He clicks his tongue again, hums again, but nothing. It’s a void._

_He can take this. It’s just silence. Silence and darkness—he could sleep like this._

_Except he can’t, because the silence is too fucking loud._

_He’s been focusing on silence through the whole ordeal, using it as a wall, but now? Now the wall’s stopped keeping things out and started holding him in, and he’s trapped, alone, completely alone in the void, and he’s going to suffocate from this, he can’t stay like this another second longer, he—_

_Light again, bright white light that hurts like hell and feels better than anything he’s felt in weeks._

_A hand in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and a face smiling down at him._

_“I was there the whole time, Michael.”_

_Michael smiles._

~

“Mikey?”

Mikey wakes up to find that he can see and hear again, and the body wrapped around him is dusty and brightly-colored.

“Oh…morning, Ray.”

Ray tightens his hold on Mikey, putting as little air between them as possible. “You…were you having nightmares? You were saying…”

Mikey knows what he was saying. “Yeah, it’s…I’m fine, Ray, go back to sleep.”

It’d be harder to explain that dreaming about being back there is never really a nightmare.

~

Ray loses himself sometimes, grabs his hips and holds him against the wall, and Mikey’s always trying to find the right spots to lick and suck to make it happen again. But Ray always has to ruin it when it’s over, jumping back like Mikey’s diseased and sputtering out apologies, and it’s just not the _same_—

He tries not to tell Ray that, at least not in those words. He’d only be worried again.

It’s easy to bait him sometimes, though.

They’ve all been working on the car most of the day, giving it a regular sand-scrubbing, but Mikey’s the first one back to his room. He’s still getting used to the desert sun again.

He sits at the end of the bed and waits until he hears footsteps on the stairs, then stands up, waits by the door, and pulls Ray into the room as soon as it starts to open. Ray lets out a noise of surprise as Mikey pushes him against the door, but Mikey muffles it with his mouth.

“Wanna suck you off,” he whispers between kisses, working Ray’s too-tight pants open. Ray exhales sharply when Mikey bites down on his earlobe before sinking to his knees. 

(Ray gets on his knees for Mikey sometimes, but it feels _wrong_, somehow. Mikey would rather be the one on the ground, the one being good to Ray, but whenever he tries to explain this, Ray frowns and holds him close, and then neither of them are getting off. 

“You don’t have to be like this, Mikey,” Ray says, holding him by the small of his back, which he supposes is soothing in its own way.

“Are you judging my sexual preferences?” Mikey asks with a smirk. “My brother might have something to say about that.”

Ray doesn’t laugh.)

He’s got his lips around the head of Ray’s cock the second he hits the ground, and Ray moans, a high and needy sound that prompts Mikey to swallow him down further.

Mikey can see Ray’s hands flexing, seeking out contact, and Mikey rolls his eyes and takes his hand off Ray’s cock to relocate his hands to the back of his head.

Ray’s eyes widen, and he takes in a shaky breath to say something, but Mikey pulls his mouth off of Ray’s cock to interrupt—“Just…fucking fuck my mouth already, come on,” and Ray’s hips twitch in that way they do when Mikey does something just right. 

“_Ray_,” he breathes against the inside of his thigh, clasping his hands behind his back, staring up at him from under his lashes, trying to make himself as presentable as possible.

“Mikey, I—“ But Mikey doesn’t let him say anything else, just takes him all the way down until he’s nearly choking on Ray’s dick, and Ray’s fingers tighten in his hair. Mikey hums his approval, making Ray groan and thrust his hips—just a little, but enough to know that Mikey’s winning.

He bobs his head once, twice, presses his tongue against the shaft and flicks at the head, and Ray’s moaning now, fucking into Mikey’s mouth at a slow pace, and it’s good, but it’s not _great_.

He goes a little faster, meeting Ray’s shallow thrusts with the back of his throat until Ray gasps and jerks his hips harder, Mikey’s name tumbling off his lips over and over again like a record that’s got too much sand in it. 

Mikey stops moving at one point and just waits, and—_yes_, Ray’s gripping the back of his head and thrusting his hips forward to keep the rhythm going. Mikey shuts his eyes and lets it happen, lets the wave of feeling _good_ and _useful_ to Ray fall over him, and he hardly notices when Ray starts to say his name with a different tone, a warning.

Mikey sucks hard, and Ray makes a choked noise and comes down his throat.

After he’s swallowed everything and cleaned Ray up, he pulls off to sit back on his heels, grinning up at him hazily. 

Ray blinks a few times, staring down at Mikey, and then his face contorts into what definitely doesn’t look like a content post-blowjob face.

“_Mikey_, holy fuck, I’m…I’m so sorry.” He kneels down next to him, holding Mikey around the neck and murmuring apologies into his ear.

What?

“What?” Mikey wriggles out of Ray’s grip enough to look him in the eye. This is ruining that blissed-out state he’d gotten himself into only seconds ago. “What’s wrong?” His voice comes out as a rasp.

“I—I shouldn’t have, that was _wrong_, I’m so sorry, Mikey…”

“Ray,” Mikey says, and he can see Ray wince at every hoarse word. “It’s fine, seriously, what the hell?”

“I fucking _used_ you, I’m not treating you like I should—“

“I _asked_ for it.”

“You didn’t _want_ to!”

Mikey stares at him. “I _asked for it_. How is that not—“

“You only asked for it because of…whatever he did to you, it messed you up, and I’m _sorry_.”

Mikey breaks free of Ray’s grip and stands up. “Not everything has to be about _him_, you know.”

Ray doesn’t follow him as he goes to the door.

~

Ray still sleeps in the same bed as him, but he doesn’t respond to Mikey’s touches, rolls over if Mikey tries to kiss him, and Mikey’s about two nights away from blowing him in his sleep when Gerard announces that they have to start moving again.

It’s another blur of days and nights, of driving and camping out, of staring at the vague rectangular shapes of the city on the horizon. He doesn’t feel like he did before, like he _needed_ to stay there, like he was so _happy_ there—that was the pills. It’s just hard to readjust to the freedom he’d been wanting for most (_most_) of his time locked up. To accept that he’s a Killjoy again.

To believe in what that actually means.

~

“You miss him,” Frank says to him out of the corner of his mouth, the other corner occupied with a wrench.

Mikey looks up from the new issue of Murder he’s only been vaguely glancing at. “What?”

“Korse. The city. Everyone’s trying not to believe it, but you miss it.” He takes the wrench out of his mouth and replaces it with a screwdriver, twisting at a bolt on whatever new gadget he’s working on.

“I don’t _miss_ him,” Mikey says, but it sounds hollow in his mouth. 

Frank just sighs and starts packing up his toolbox. “You do. You’re always looking over there, you never act angry for what he did—Ray told me you say his name in your _sleep_, fuck. I don’t know if this is your way of coping or whatever, but if he comes after us again…I just don’t want you running back to him, okay?”

Mikey starts to protest, but when he considers the idea—Korse chasing them down again, smiling at him, the spot next to him empty and waiting—Mikey turns away.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe, if he had the chance, he’d go back to the way it was, but that chance isn’t coming. He’s stuck here again.

He might as well try to start believing again.

~

It doesn’t last long.

The first (and only) time Mikey kills a Drac after being taken back to the desert, he almost throws up. 

Gerard kneels down to put an arm around his shoulders when he collapses next to the body, but Mikey shoves him away, snarling, “What if that was you? Drafted into a war you don’t believe in, shoved into a body you don’t want, and then shot by people who could have been your friends? How would you feel?”

“Dead,” Gerard says, and Mikey really does throw up, now.

~

“Mikey.” Gerard sidles into the back seat next to Mikey, and Mikey cringes away, but he doesn’t leave. It’s been a while since they’ve talked, maybe Gerard will listen to him this time. “I know you’re just trying to be reasonable, but…we can’t reason with them. They want us dead. They probably want you dead, too—you’re kind of a liability. So who do you really want to trust, the ones who want you dead or the ones who will keep you safe from them?”

Mikey picks at the half-eaten can of kibble they’ve been sharing all day, not looking at Gerard. “I _want_ to trust you, you know I do. I’m just…having trouble doing that.”

Gerard sighs that hurt little sigh he seems to be doing a lot lately. “Mikey…”

“I’m _sorry_. Just give me some more time.”

“We don't have any time. You need to pick a side, and you need to pick it now. Are you going to fight the fuckers who fucked you up, or fight your best friends?”

“You don’t underst—“

“I do understand!” Gerard’s gripping the seats tight enough that Mikey starts to worry about the upholstery. “I understand that the guy we’re fighting to the death tortured and manipulated you _to get back at me_. Do you have any idea how much that’s fucking with _my_ head?”

“Get back at you? The fuck did you do to him that the rest of us haven’t?”

Gerard doesn’t look at him. “We—“ he stops himself, taking a deep breath. “I—“

Mikey waits.

“I just…tricked him into letting me go, that’s all,” Gerard finally stammers out, but there’s obviously a lot going unsaid.

Mikey keeps staring at him. He knows Gerard; if nobody stops him he’ll keep talking until someone does. And he never keeps secrets from Mikey.

“…What?” Gerard still won’t look at him. 

“…Go on, tell me more.”

“There’s nothing left to tell,” Gerard snaps, and Mikey recoils at the tone. Gerard doesn’t trust him.

_His brother doesn’t trust him._

“You’re sure?” he asks, hoping, _wishing_ for it not to be true, but Gerard just shakes his head and starts to climb out the door.

Mikey slumps in his seat. Gerard, his big brother, the one he’s saved and been saved by so many times, the one who’s been trying to get Mikey to listen to him for the past few weeks, doesn’t even trust him.

He’s seen the way the other guys look at him, too. Ray’s scared of him, especially ever since they stopped sleeping together, and Frank always gives him these obnoxious knowing looks, like _Yeah, you’re screwed up, but I won’t say anything_. He feels diseased, like everyone wants to watch him and take care of him without getting anywhere near him.

Fine, then. If they’re not going to trust him, he’ll just return the favor.

~

_He’s on his knees, there are hands in his hair, his mouth is full of Korse’s cock and it’s the greatest feeling in the world. His brain is flooded with sensation and endorphins and whatever they put in those pills, and he’s barely lucid, unable to think._

_ So he doesn’t. He just lets Korse move him wherever he likes, fast or slow, deep or shallow, like a tool, like a thing, and his mind goes completely blank. He doesn’t need to think. He just needs to sink into this feeling and hope it never goes away, hope he can stay this open and empty forever._

_ But then the monotony of Korse’s rhythmic thrusting is interrupted by sudden sharp pains where his fingers are tightening in his hair, and he can hear Korse’s breathing stutter, and then he’s swallowing as fast as he can as Korse comes in his mouth and down his throat._

_ He comes back to himself all at once, suddenly aware of his own swollen lips and raw throat, and he groans, but then Korse’s hands are back in his hair again, stroking lightly around his ears. _

_ “You’ll never leave, will you, Michael?” Korse tugs on the back of Michael’s collar until he starts to choke again._

_ He can’t say a word._

~

Mikey wakes up in the back of the car, having given up on sleeping so close to the others. He’s almost surprised to see he’s still wearing the cheap leather jacket and oddly-colored pants that the others forced him into the day he left the building, once they’d managed to get him out of the white prisoner’s uniform. 

Waking up is always disorienting. He still dreams in black and white, and when he wakes up and sees the blue sky, the brown dust, he just wants to go back to sleep.

What had he ever seen in the desert?

~

Mikey had thought Gerard would start avoiding him after that point, but instead, he can’t get rid of him.

“Mikey, sit up front today, would you?” he asks as they’re clearing up their camp. 

“No,” Mikey says simply, but Gerard just keeps pressing. 

“Come on, it won’t be that bad. Frank’s getting tired of shotgun, and Ray had it for a long time before him, so. Just work with me for a little while longer, okay?”

“_No_.”

“Well, in the time it took you to argue about this, the other guys have already taken the back seats.”

Mikey turns around, and sure enough, Frank’s climbing in to the car to scoot next to Ray. Fuck.

They’re all against him.

He stares out the window for most of the journey, ignoring Gerard’s attempts at conversation until the whole car is silent for a while. Even Ray and Frank don’t say anything.

They’re still silent as they pull up to Doctor D’s lair, the first time they’ve been back there since Mikey’s return. Show Pony’s hanging outside, draped over a bench and looking like the most boneless sentry, but he snaps to attention as the Trans Am pulls up. 

Show knocks on the door to the lair four times once they all start to climb out of the car, and Grace comes rushing out, arms wide and ready to wrap themselves around the first person she runs into, which happens to be Ray. It’s usually Ray.

Doctor D’s just finishing up a broadcast as they head inside, so they have to stay quiet for a few minutes while he plays through the last song of the hour. It’s an old one, and Mikey doesn’t recognize it, something loud and surreal about the future, the twenty-first century. The lyrics don’t sound too hopeful for it, and Mikey doesn’t blame whoever wrote them.

Doctor D hits a button to stop the broadcast and spins around in his chair to see them. “Got your broken squad back together again?” 

“Yeah, all good now.” Gerard answers, but he doesn’t look as confident as he sounds.

Doctor D eyes Mikey from over his sunglasses. Mikey stares back, trying not to fidget. It’s been so long since he’s seen him, seen that fierce fuck-you look in his eyes that the other Killjoys can never quite copy. Mikey feels exposed, like Doctor D’s glare is peeling away all the color the others put on him and showing everyone just how pale and white he is on the inside.

He keeps his eyes on Mikey for a few more moments before turning to Gerard. “Poison, let’s get some peace here, yeah?” He glances at the others, gaze lingering on Mikey only slightly, and it’s a clear signal. They head back outside, leaving the two alone. 

Mikey sulks near the door, trying not to look like he’s straining to hear any word he can pick up. 

“Hey,” Ray says carefully, breaking his concentration as he walks over towards Mikey. “How are you doing?”

Mikey shrugs, not looking at him. 

“Any better?” Ray won’t get near him. It’s not like Mikey’s contagious or anything, fuck.

“Gee doesn’t trust me,” he finally says, crossing his arms close to his chest.

Ray frowns, and he opens his stance a bit, but he still doesn’t get any closer. “What? Of course he does.”

“He doesn’t. He won’t tell me anything anymore, he thinks I’m messed up as fuck, and now he’s shoving me outside so he can talk about his plans without me knowing. He thinks I’m going to go back to Korse.”

There’s a pause as Ray sighs and kicks at a rock on the ground in front of him. 

“Well…are you?”

Mikey slams a fist on the thin metal wall of the shelter, and the voices inside go silent for a moment, but Mikey isn’t paying attention, he’s busy starting to storm off in any direction that will take him away from everyone.

“_Mikey!_” Ray grabs him by the arm before he can get anywhere. “Mikey, listen, I didn’t mean—“

“You don’t trust me, either!”

“We’re just _scared_, all right? We don’t know what he did to you or how it affected—“

“You’re just following whatever Gerard tells you, is that it? That’s how he always is, he thinks he’s so fucking _right_ all the time.”

“He’s our leader, he’s the least likely to screw up, we need to put some amount of trust in—“

“Oh, yeah, Gerard’s just fucking _perfect_, what with the constantly getting all of us kidnapped or nearly killed.”

“We knew there was going to be a risk from the start!”

“Is it really worth it?” Mikey’s shaking now, and it’s not just from trying to get out of Ray’s grip. “Running through the desert, trying to bring back color and music, getting in gunfights, fighting a war we’re pretty much set to lose anyway? Is it worth it?”

“We’re not going to lose,” Ray says, and it almost sounds sincere. “We’re going to fight until we take down BLI. That’s just how it’s going to go.”

“You just sound like _him_.” Mikey scowls. “He make you memorize that?”

“_Mikey_.” Ray’s holding him by his shoulders by now, staring him down, but then he looks up when Frank calls, “You two all right?” and walks over until he’s behind Ray.

Great. Someone else who’s going to just agree with whatever Gerard says.

“Frank, help me out. We trust Mikey, right?” Ray’s gaze keeps shifting between Mikey, the door of the shelter, and the corner of his eye, where he probably can’t even see Frank.

Frank opens his mouth to answer, but he hesitates, and that’s enough to make Mikey snarl and spit, “You don’t. You think I’m a BLI drone, don’t you? You think I’m insane for looking at both sides, but _you_ two are the ones following some crazy guy who thinks he can change the world with paint!”

Frank circles around Ray to get a better look at Mikey, staring at him just as intently. “That _crazy guy_ is your brother!” 

“_I fucking know that!_” Mikey struggles, but Ray’s got big hands and a lot more strength than he usually lets on. He can’t get free, but he can keep shouting. “And that’s the only reason I’ve been given to put any trust in him! So we have the same parents and got stuck in the same house together, great, that must mean I have to believe every word he says.”

“You trust him because you’ve known him long enough to know he’s _right_.” Frank has one of his hands on Mikey’s upper arm now, squeezing almost painfully. “He’s going to fix things. It might take a while, it might end in one of us hurt or dead, but shit, if me dying means we’ll win in the end, I’m fine with that.”

Mikey stares at both of them with a kind of horrified calm. “You’re fucking _brainwashed_.” 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Frank spits. Ray starts looking nervously over Mikey’s shoulder.

“I’m actually _considering my options_. You just listen to whatever he tells you and take it as fact.”

“And you’re just ignoring everything he says because of whatever fucking Korse did to you!”

Ray’s still silently looking behind Mikey, and Mikey wants to ask just what’s so fucking interesting that’s going on behind him, and—

There’s a hand.

On the back of his neck.

Mikey’s next bitter reply to Frank falls out of his head, and he can’t move or breathe or _think_.

“Mikey.”

He knows that voice, knows it’s _Gerard_, knows he should start struggling and shouting and telling everyone to fuck off until he’s free to run as far away as he can, but—

The hand moves up into his hair.

“Listen to me.”

Frank and Ray are still there, but they’re silent, practically ghosts, just there to hold Mikey still as the hand keeps moving, fingertips running along his scalp.

“You were taken by Korse. He had you for a long time, long enough that you started to see him as the one keeping you safe. The only one you could trust.” The hand smoothes back his bangs, and his brain can’t handle all the messages of _no no no_ and _yes yes yes_ that are running back and forth in his head, occasionally colliding and just making too much _noise_. Mikey shuts his eyes.

The darkness only makes the voice sound louder. “You can’t trust him. He still captured and tortured you. He _hurt_ you. I won’t hurt you.” It’s not just the darkness, the voice is closer now—Mikey can feel hot breath near his ear, can feel another arm wrapping around and holding him close as the others’ hands let go. 

“I won’t hurt you,” the voice keeps repeating, and Mikey believes it. It’s easy to just listen to the voice, feel the hand in his hair, so much like before but _better_. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and sinks into the touch, almost at ease for the first time in weeks. 

“I’m going to let go now,” the voice says, and Mikey nods, paying more attention to the voice than the words it’s saying. “Are you going to stay calm?”

Mikey nods again, and the hand is gone. Then the other arm is gone, and Mikey’s alone. He blinks his eyes open, slowly, unsure.

Frank and Ray have stepped back a few feet, and Gerard’s standing in front of him now, watching him carefully. Mikey’s still dazed, vaguely aware that he should run, or yell at Gerard, but he needs to remember how to move, first.

“Well?”

Mikey doesn’t know what Gerard’s asking. He tries to convey this with a blank stare.

“Are you going to stay with us?”

And then it hits him all over again, what he was yelling about before, why there’s a part of him that wants to punch Gerard right now, why Frank and Ray are giving each other nervous glances. He wants to start screaming again.

But he doesn’t. 

“I’ll…I’ll stay,” Mikey says, blinking and trying to shake off the haze that hit him from the second Gerard’s hand touched his neck. “Just…I still need some time to figure things out, okay? Don’t bug me about it.”

Gerard nods. “I just want you to get better, that’s all.”

Mikey wants to argue, to say he’s been fine all along, but he can’t say that’s really the truth, not anymore. 

“We can calm down for a little while. Fewer raids, fewer fights. It means more running, but more time for you to get your head back on straight. Just until you’re ready to fight again. Sound all right?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, that sounds perfect, Gee.”

Gerard puts his hand on Mikey’s shoulder—not on his neck, but close enough the Mikey has to suppress a twitch. “I should have done this earlier. Everyone else usually recovers pretty quickly, I didn’t even think…I’m sorry.” And he looks so fucking genuine and regretful that all Mikey wants is to believe him, to give him a hug and say that they’re okay, that he’s on his side, but Gerard’s thumb is resting near his collarbone, maybe two inches below where the collar Korse put on him used to rest. 

_How could your dear brother ever be wrong?_

“Are we taking Grace?” Mikey finally asks after a minute of silence, unable to come up with any other response. 

“Probably. She’s been stuck here for a while, she should come along if we’re going to try and stay out of trouble anyway.” 

“Great. Awesome. Ray will be happy.”

“Yeah.” Gerard’s thumb presses above his collarbone, just for a second, and then lets go, leaving Mikey frozen, just trying to breathe through the haze creeping back into his head. 

They’re back on the road after another few hours of talking to Doctor D and stocking up on supplies, Grace sitting in the back between Frank and Ray and talking about something she wants to draw. It’s hard to come by pens or pencils in the desert, and paint is something they conserve for use on the car and the guns, so she always describes everything she wishes she could draw in enough detail that it’s almost real to all of them.

“You’ll be all right,” Gerard whispers that night, his sleeping bag close to Mikey’s, but not touching. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Mikey doesn’t answer, already half-asleep and unwilling to carry on another conversation with Gerard right now. Gerard sighs behind him, the material of the sleeping bag shifting.

Just as he’s drifting off to sleep, he thinks he hears Gerard whispering to himself.

“Fucking _Korse_, you didn’t have to _do_ this.”

~

_He’s going to fall apart._

_ Everything’s tense, stretched tight tight tight and just on the edge of breaking, flying apart everywhere, and there’s so much pain he can barely gasp out “Fuck you! Fuck you!” after every shock._

_ “Who are you protecting here?” Korse asks, his voice muffled under the blood pounding in his ears. “Your friends, your companions, your _brother?_”_

_ He bites his tongue, the way he did those first few days, hard enough to reopen cuts that might not ever heal if he keeps this up, his mouth filling with the sharp taste of blood. Maybe if he does this, tries to go back to how he was before, silent and motionless, he can erase everything he’s given to Korse already, maybe—_

_ “It’s sad, really, that someone could put his own brother through these trials,” Korse says, and his mouth moves on its own, screams out, “You shut the fuck up about my brother!” and his body starts to shake, maybe convulsing from pain and fear, maybe trying to escape, he can’t really say. The restraints still hold, no matter how hard he struggles, but he still wrenches hard until another shock goes through him. He’s stopped hearing his own screams at this point, they all blend together with the noise of the machine, the pounding of his heart, the words Korse says._

_ “That’s the first time you’ve acknowledged that Gerard is your brother, you know.”_

_ He goes limp. His skin is still tense and ready to fly into a million pieces, but he can’t move. He fucked up. He’d already betrayed himself just by moving, reacting, speaking, but now he’s really fucked up. _

_ Korse keeps talking, keeps spewing lies and filth and nothing he wants to hear, nothing he should be listening to. He trusts Gerard. He needs Gerard. Just because he didn’t come up with the idea, just because he wasn’t as much of a hero as Gerard, just because he followed him because he didn’t know where else to go, it doesn’t mean—_

_ “He manipulated you, Michael.”_

_ He snaps something back, some quip that probably suits Gerard better than him, and gets another wave of pain in return. _

_ Korse leaves, and he’s left in silence, too much time to think. _

_ Michael just wishes he knew what to think about._

~

Mikey wakes up in the middle of the night, eyes wide, gasping for breath. His skin is still tingling, and his throat feels a little hoarse, but it’s hard to tell if it’s phantom pain or not. 

A nightmare. He had a nightmare, a real one, for the first time since the rescue.

Mikey curls up and takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself down enough to go back to sleep. 

Gerard would probably say that it’s good, his brain knows that everything that happened before was _bad_, that it belongs in his nightmares.

Mikey shuts his eyes and wishes for dreamless sleep.


	3. Part 3

This is all his fault.

Gerard knew it was going to be bad, after Frank nearly tore them all apart during his rescue, after Ray wouldn’t speak for two weeks, after coming back from Battery City himself, but he didn’t think it would be _this_ bad. Maybe there would be a lot of hugging, some waking up from nightmares, the usual post-capture care—that’s what he’d been expecting.

Not…_this_.

“I told you, he stopped hurting me after a while,” Mikey’s saying, staring down at his lap. His face is a little fuzzy from the smoke and heat haze of the fire, and Gerard wants to scoot over and sit next to him, but Mikey made him promise. They sit across from each other, no contact, talking until it’s Frank or Ray’s turn to keep watch.

“But he still _had_ hurt you. Nothing he does afterwards can make up for something like that.” 

“What, so we can’t forgive anyone?” Mikey doesn’t look up. He usually doesn’t, but Gerard keeps his eyes forward constantly during these times, just in case. 

“I didn’t say that.” Mikey’s always putting words in Gerard’s mouth, and it’s starting to get irritating. “You can’t forgive _him_ for _that_. Especially since he probably only stopped torturing you because he didn’t _need_ to anymore.”

“How do you know that? Maybe he just got tired of asking questions and just—“

“They’re printing our full names on those wanted posters, Mikey.” 

Mikey stiffens. Gerard’s going to have to tread carefully here; one wrong step could either help Mikey or break him even more.

He speaks slowly, watching Mikey’s movements with every word. “I know what you went through, I know it must have been hard, but…you sold us out. You gave them what they wanted.” 

Mikey flinches, his shoulders hunching defensively, like he’s bracing for something—waiting to be _punished_. Gerard almost takes it back, apologizes for everything, because Mikey just looks so lonely and hurt he can barely stand it, but he can’t stop now. 

There’s an opportunity here.

He breaks the line, moves around the fire until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Mikey’s shoulders. 

“But I forgive you.”

Mikey’s tense, probably still waiting for Gerard to lash out at him, but he doesn’t speak or move.

“I forgive you, because I know it must have been hard. I understand. More than anyone else, I understand what it must have been like.” He holds Mikey a little closer, just from the side, not touching his neck or head. Definitely not his hair.

“We’re not the bad guys, remember?”

Mikey nods, the tiniest little movement that Gerard might not have seen if he weren’t this close.

“But BLI, they _are_ the bad guys. They’re the ones fucking everything up, and we’re going to unfuck it. Sound good?”

Mikey nods again, but he still won’t speak, and they’re both still and quiet for a while. Gerard doesn’t let go until Mikey mumbles that it’s their turn to sleep, shifting away from Gerard’s arms to go wake up Frank. 

Gerard has trouble sleeping after that, at least half an hour wasted trying to convince himself that what he’d done was okay.

~

_He remembers:_

_ Waking up the first day and pulling at leather restraints until his wrists were rubbed raw, spitting in Korse’s face when he started asking questions, laughing and shouting and screaming through the shocks._

He says:

“I told you, Mikey, I just tricked him into letting me go, and he got pissed. That’s why he hates me so much.”

_Giving away nothing for a week, realizing Korse wasn’t going to stop until he spilled, trying to think of a way out._

“But _how?_ Just sneaking out behind his back would hurt his pride, yeah, but this seems…I dunno. He really fucking hates you.”

_Keeping his eyes on Korse one morning as he walked in, trying to look and feel comfortable in the position he was strapped into, asking before Korse could start speaking, “How’s your day been?”_

“Maybe I’m the first one who’s escaped without help. I don’t know, seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

_Korse raising an eyebrow, but answering, “Fine, Poison. And yours?” His saying the last word with a smirk and a gesture to start hooking up the machine. Laughing and answering back, “Shitty as usual, I suppose. So what’s the quiz question of the day?”_

_ Korse laughing, actually laughing. _

_Trying to hide a smile before the first pulse shoots through him. _

“Something went on between you two. Something big. Something that made him decide to fuck me up in revenge.”

“So you’ve finally agreed you’re fucked up? I think that’s a good first step.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Already have.”

~

“How’s he doing?” Frank asks, passing his can of kibble for Gerard to take a few bites.

“Better? Maybe. I don’t know, it’s fucking scary, having to look it in the face like this.” The kibble’s disgusting as fuck as usual, but he’s almost forgotten what real food tastes like anyway.

“Does he still want to go back?”

Gerard passes the can over. “I can’t tell. I think it’s less of him wanting to go back and more…not being sure where to go, who to trust. That’s what Korse really did, made him think we might be the bad guys and they might be the good guys, maybe sorta kinda. He’s confused. It’s back and forth all the time—one day he’s agreeing with everything I say, the next he’s shouting at me about how I need to listen.”

“So you just need to give him a convincing argument.” Frank scrapes up the last of the kibble and holds out the fork to Gerard. “Beat him over the head with how fucking good we are until he’s got a bruise big enough to make him remember.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Gerard takes the bite, sucking a little at the fork to make sure he gets everything. Frank takes the clean fork back and puts it in his own mouth, an odd little indirect kiss that Gerard shouldn’t find so endearing. They’re fighting for their lives in the middle of the desert and one of them could lose any minute, there’s no time for sweet gestures.

But Frank always does it anyway, a hug here, a held hand there, a word of praise or comfort whenever he can work it in. Even when they’re fucking—something they all do, something that’s just there to keep them sane in a crazy world—Frank seems like he’s making a serious effort with Gerard. Like it’s something just the two of them do, like it’s some kind of special connection. 

Gerard always thinks about reciprocating, but it’d be too difficult to complicate his relationship with a member of his team, especially now. If this ever ends, if they’re ever able to settle down and just _live_ instead of fight, maybe. 

But right now, he gets up from his seat in the diner (a new one they found about a week ago, they’re still waiting a few more months before risking going back to the old one) to go outside, leaving Frank to suck on his used fork. 

~

“Gee?” Grace asks one morning as they’re all working on the car. “Are you a good guy?”

Gerard freezes, nearly dropping the brush he’s holding. A drop of paint hits the sand, and Gerard curses silently. 

“Are you?”

Gerard puts the brush on top of the container of paint and squats down to meet Grace at eye level. “Yes. We’re all good guys. Why do you ask?”

“Mikey was saying stuff.”

_Fuck_. He _knew_ staying away from Mikey for too long was going to be a problem, and now he’s gone and tried to indoctrinate Grace into the bullshit they’ve been trying to keep her away from ever since they found her, and—

“He said there’s no such thing as good guys and bad guys.”

“He’s wrong.” Gerard stares at her in a way he hopes is how a father is supposed to look. “Look, Mikey’s—something happened to him. The bad guys got him, and they made him think that they aren’t so bad.”

“But they are bad?”

“Yes. And that’s why we’re trying to stop them.”

“But they’re trying to stop us, too, so what—“

“_Grace_.” Gerard sighs and smoothes his hair back, ignoring the fact that he’s probably getting paint in it. “You’re going to have to trust me on this, okay? BLI did a lot of bad things and I promise you’ll understand when you’re older, but…just don’t listen to Mikey.”

Grace looks at him. He knows she doesn’t like the “you’ll get it when you’re older” argument and he’s waiting for her to fight, but she just looks at the ground and says “Okay.” 

She doesn’t look like she believes him. Gerard’s going to _scream_.

He almost does, too, the next time he gets the chance to pull Mikey aside, at the end of the day behind the shelter they’re squatting in tonight, Mikey shoved against the wall.

“The fuck do you think you’re _doing?_” Gerard hisses, both hands on Mikey’s shoulders. 

Mikey’s only answer is to stare back at him and look confused, the fucker.

“You’re trying to turn Grace against me, now? Who’s next, Ray? Frank?”

“Frank wouldn’t turn against you, he’s your fucking _lapdog_.” Mikey doesn’t even sound angry about it, and somehow that pisses Gerard off even more.

“He’s not my fucking dog, he just knows that I’m right and they’re wrong.”

Mikey raises an eyebrow, and Gerard hesitates, going back over what he said.

“…That _we’re_ right and they’re wrong, is what I meant. Fuck, Mikey, don’t do this. I’m trying to help you. I thought you _wanted_ to trust us again.”

“I—“ Mikey looks away. “I just want to trust _someone_.”

Gerard leans in and presses their foreheads together, as if he could send _believe me listen to me trust me love me please Mikey please_ from his brain directly into his brother’s. He can feel Mikey’s breathing pick up, little stutters of breath that hit the corner of Gerard’s mouth. Fuck. He leans back, but doesn't let go of Mikey’s shoulders.

It shouldn’t be like this. Mikey shouldn’t be flinching away every time Gerard gets near him. Gerard shouldn’t be holding his kid brother against a fucking wall and fighting to be heard. He has enough trouble getting the population of Battery City to listen to him, if he can’t even talk to his own _brother_—

Gerard’s running out of options. He’s tried being reasonable, he’s tried being logical, he’s tried fucking therapy sessions by firelight, but nothing can seem to get Mikey back to the way he was—pissed off at BLI and always behind Gerard’s plans to take them down.

Mikey starts to speak again, shaking Gerard out of his thoughts. “Maybe I should just take off on my own for a while, maybe—“

“_No_,” Gerard snaps before he can stop himself, because Mikey leaving him is the last thing he needs right now. Mikey winces at the tone and shuts up, and Gerard sighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—I just don’t think you should be alone right now. It won’t help you.”

“How do you know?” Mikey relaxes a little after Gerard’s apology, but he doesn’t back down. “I could go find a place to squat on my own, get my head together—“

“And leave us wondering the whole time if you were going to come back?” It’s a gamble and a cheap shot all at once, and Gerard has to hold in a sigh of relief when Mikey’s shoulders slump. 

His thumb brushes Mikey’s neck as he leans in to say something else, and—and Mikey fucking _shivers_. It’s just a little twitch, but he’s leaning _into_ Gerard instead of cringing away like he has been, and fuck, fuck fuck _fuck_, he knows where this is going. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t even think about taking advantage like this, not since the last time, but.

“Mikey,” he says slowly. “You have to stop being so stubborn about this. There’s a difference between seeing it from the other guy’s perspective and blocking both sides out.” His hand moves to the back of Mikey’s neck, just resting there. Mikey doesn’t move, staring at Gerard apprehensively, his expression exaggerated in the slowly fading sunlight. 

“You trusted us before. You were committed to this, to kicking BLI in the teeth and getting our color back.” Gerard takes a breath, then holds back the words _I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry Mikey please forgive me_ as he lets his hand move into Mikey’s hair. 

It’s the same reaction he got the last time, the one that made him never want to do this again. Mikey stops moving, stops _breathing_, stares at Gerard with a mixture of confusion and fear and—and something he can't define, doesn't _want_ to. He’s going to be sick, he has to stop this, but Mikey’s paying more attention to him than he ever has since the other day he did this. He lets his hand run all the way through Mikey’s hair, and Mikey _shivers_ again.

“Don’t you remember?” Gerard asks, barely able to keep his voice from shaking. “You and me, shooting down Dracs, painting the guns, listening to Doctor D’s transmissions together…” He pushes Mikey’s bangs out of his face, exposing his eyes, and Gerard’s so close to letting go and apologizing, but then Mikey nods. He remembers.

“It’s hard, yeah, the sun and the heat and the running, but you never complained before. You knew that what we were doing, it was better than going back to the pills and working in a factory.” He runs his fingers through Mikey’s hair the same way he does with his own, straight back, fluffing it up a bit. It still feels unnaturally clean, the way it was when they first got him back. Gerard wants to rub dust and dirt and sweat and blood into it until it’s as filthy as it was before Korse took him away, and he tries not to think too hard about that image running through his head.

Mikey’s eyes shut, and he starts taking slow, even breaths. He’s trying to ignore Gerard, to block everything out so he can focus on his own fucked-up thoughts, and Gerard’s not going to let that happen.

“Look at me, Mikey.”

Mikey doesn’t open his eyes, and Gerard digs his nails in behind his ear, making Mikey flinch and shudder and—and Gerard wants to believe the little gasp he hears is out of surprise. 

“_Look at me_.” Gerard’s used to giving orders, to being the leader, but not like this. It’s difficult just to put any amount of authority in his voice and fake all the confidence he can.

Mikey’s eyes open. He won’t move, but he doesn’t recoil when Gerard puts his other hand on Mikey’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer. 

“Mikey, you’re a zonerunner. It’s just who you are, who you’ve always been, since you threw your pills away all by yourself.” He leans forward until their noses nearly touch, never breaking eye contact. “It was your idea to try out rebelling against BLI, it was my idea to leave the city. We worked off each other, we _trusted_ each other. I trusted you because I’ve known you my whole life, and I love you more than anyone else in this whole fucking desert does. Why did you trust me?”

He asks a question because he needs a response from Mikey, something that isn’t just a blank look and a nod. Any more of that and he’s going to back off out of sheer disgust in himself.

“You were…right,” Mikey says quietly, sounding surprised at his own words. “You were right. I hated the city, I just…didn’t think of actually _leaving_.”

“And I did.” Gerard relaxes his hand, but doesn’t let it leave Mikey’s hair. “I did, and you agreed, because it made sense. Right?”

“Right.” 

Gerard pulls him into a full-on hug, one hand still on the back of Mikey’s head. It could be out of relief, it could be out of the need to comfort him, it could be out of not wanting to see Mikey’s face like this, he doesn’t even know anymore. Mikey melts into it, leaning into him and pressing his face into Gerard’s neck, his breath short but not gasping. It feels like there should be some kind of barrier between them, but they fit together like they have their whole lives.

“You still trust me,” he whispers, almost like it’s an order, no matter how much he wishes it weren’t. “You just needed to remember _why_.”

Mikey nods. He’s breathing a little harder, making the hair on the back of Gerard’s neck stand on end. 

_He remembers:_

_ Being released from the leather straps holding him down and forced to his hands and knees on the ground, Korse stripping him naked, struggling to get away but barely able to move after another shock session and no food for the past three days. _

_ “What’s wrong, Poison? Isn’t this why you left the city, because we refuse to let you have this?”_

_ Biting back insults, reminding himself that he had a plan, he could work with this, he just needed to focus—_

_ Pressureburnpain as Korse opened him up, his fingers cold and nowhere near wet enough, trying not to cry out and failing miserably. _

_ Korse hissing as he pushed in, and whispering, “It didn’t have to come to this. You could have cooperated.”_

_ Being stretched until he was waiting to have to fight back tears, almost laughing when he realized he’d taken worse pain over the past few weeks, that this was nothing. Exhaling sharply as Korse started to move at a steady pace. _

_ Thinking about the others. Praying to whatever static gods might be listening that this would work._

_ “Fuck.”_

_ “What was that?”_

_ Forcing a smile onto his face. “Fuck…yeah. _Yeah.”__

_ Korse stopping._

_ “Come on, fuck, keep going.” _

_ Korse starting to move again, faster, making it hurt like fuck. Trying to keep from letting his voice go too high as he faked a moan and pushed himself back._

_ “Fuck, Korse, _faster_, you fucker.”_

He says:

“I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“…For what?”

Gerard just keeps petting the back of Mikey’s head and holding him close. Mikey doesn’t speak for the rest of the night.

~

He gets the idea the next morning, and nearly shoves it away immediately, locks it in his mental box of things that shouldn’t be done, but it’s the quiet hours just after dawn, and Gerard always thinks way too hard at this time of day. _This could work_. He doesn’t want to admit that, but it could.

He rolls over in his sleeping bag to see Mikey, asleep and probably still dreaming—about what, Gerard doesn’t want to know—and he reaches over to shake him awake.

“Hey.”

Mikey makes a small noise, but doesn’t open his eyes. Gerard shakes his shoulder harder.

“Hey, c’mon. Wake up, Kobra.”

Mikey’s eyes pop open, a little sleep-hazy but wide. Gerard wants to go back to sleep. Forever.

He smiles instead. “We’re heading out soon. Help me start packing up the camp?”

Mikey nods, his mouth moving a bit but not saying anything.

Gerard ruffles his hair, like he would have done before all this, but with a bit more attention to the back. “You’re the best, Kid.”

Mikey takes about five minutes before actually standing up to help Gerard, but he doesn’t argue at all. 

~

He tells Frank and Ray what to do as soon as he can talk to them out of Mikey’s earshot.

“Hey, Kobra, pass me the screwdriver.”

“Fucking _fuck_, it’s hot out. Don’t know how Kobra there can stand wearing that jacket all the time.”

“Gonna finish that kibble, Kid?”

“What color do you think we should try next, Kobra?”

“Kid, up for some target practice?”

Mikey responds to the name, but it always takes him a second, and he never looks happy about it. But he doesn’t bring it up with Gerard. That’s enough for him.

Gerard starts spending more time with his hands in Mikey’s hair. Little touches, a brush here and a scratch there, but there’s no hesitation. He doesn’t let himself stop, and he doesn’t give Mikey a chance to move away.

He hates himself for it, a little, but when Mikey starts responding to his old name almost instantly, and doesn’t wince as much when Gerard touches him, it’s difficult to find much reason to feel guilty.

At least, no reason he could find on his own.

“I’m not sure about this,” Frank whispers to him one night, glancing nervously at the other side of the camp where Mikey’s sleeping. “I mean, not just the name thing. The touching thing. What if you fuck him up even—“

“When you break a bone,” Gerard interrupts, speaking slowly and carefully, “and it heals wrong? You have to break it again, so you can set it right.” 

“But what if he can’t handle all this, what if he just—“

“_Frank_.” He puts a hand on Frank’s shoulder and leans in closer, “He’ll be _fine_. Stop worrying.”

Frank doesn’t flinch away, but he does stare apprehensively at Gerard for a moment before asking quietly, “You end all your arguments like this?”

Gerard lets go, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t apologize.

~

“I’m sorry.”

Gerard takes his hand off Mikey’s head, which is half-pillowed in his lap. “For what?” It’s not so much a question as it is a cue to continue.

“For getting caught. For talking. For almost buying into their bullshit. Just…for everything.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” He cups Mikey’s cheek and stares down at him. “It wasn't your fault. It was his. He fucks with your head, it’s his job.”

_He remembers:_

_ Kissing Korse for the first time, leaning forward and pressing their mouths together while Korse fucked him against the wall._

_ Korse jerking back and nearly dropping him, losing the rhythm completely. “What are you _doing?_”_

_ “Come on, try it. You’ll like it.” Smiling saccharine-sweet as he leaned in again._

He says:

“You have to fuck with him, or else he’ll fuck with you.”

“…And you fucked with him?” 

“The best I could.” Maybe a bit too much. “He fucking deserved it.”

“He did,” Mikey agrees, and it’s the best thing Gerard’s heard in months.

“So don’t feel bad.” He rests his hand back on the top of Mikey’s head. “We’ve all done things we’re not too proud of.”

_Kissing Korse’s neck, collarbone, chest, muttering about how good he looked, how much he couldn’t wait._

_Korse hissing in his ear as he pressed in, “I’m going to show you off. Take you to a meeting tomorrow, you on your knees by my side, show all of BLI how much you’re mine.”_

_Gasping out, “Yours, all yours,” because lying through his teeth was so much easier when things were going his way._

“It’ll be okay. You’re back with us. We’ll start fighting again soon, and you can pay him back.”

_Kneeling at the end of a table next to where Korse was sitting, discussing plans and pointing out hot zones on maps to unmasked Draculoids. Waiting._

“I’ll let you shoot him in his fucking face. We’ll take out all his Dracs, then I’ll hold him while you shoot.”

_Snatching Korse’s gun as soon as he stopped paying attention to him, firing two shots into Korse’s chest before standing up and taking shots at the Dracs._

“I’ll make sure you get your goddamn revenge, Kobra. You can count on me.”

_Shooting the mechanism on the back of his own neck and swearing as it sent a jolt through him, but only for a few seconds. Ripping off the collar and dashing for the door._

_“Poison!”_

“…Hey, Gee?”

“Yeah?”

_Ignoring his better judgment and turning around. Korse clutching at his chest and struggling to stand up. Whirring noises coming from him every time he moved._

_Smirking and pointing the gun at him again._

“…Call me Mikey?”

_Running._

“…You’re the Kobra Kid, now. Will be until we’re all dust in the desert.”

_Running._

“You can call me Poison from now on, if it makes you feel better.”

_Running._

“They already know our names, we don’t have to—“

“Then we give up those names. We don’t need them anymore.”

_Taking a bike from the garages and tearing out of the city as fast as possible, checking the frequencies on the built-in radio. _

“We’re not those people. We’re Party Poison, Jet Star, Fun Ghoul, and Kobra Kid.”

_Driving half-blind, wishing he’d stolen a helmet, still flipping through channel after channel. “Any runners hearing me? Party Poison here. I need some help.”_

“That’s who we are and who we’ll be. Nothing can change that.”

_“Party Poison here, east side of Zone 1, is anyone there?”_

_ “…Poison? Holy shit, you’re alive? Guys, get over here!”_

_ Letting out a sigh of relief and nearly choking on dust. “Hey, Kobra. Where can I find you?”_

“…I guess it’s better than Michael.”

_Riding to the Killjoys’ camp and getting mobbed by the others, reassuring them that he’s not hurt, he’s not on any pills, he won’t be tracked. _

_ Holding Mikey close, mumbling “Missed you,” and Mikey echoing him. _

“See? You’ll get used to it. We’re all adjusting to this, we have been ever since we left. This will only help.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Kobra falls asleep like that, smiling faintly as Poison runs dirty fingers through his dusty hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, if you did! please enjoy [SAD LOVE POEMS FOR PARTY POISON (BY KORSE)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493624) by [flyingthesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingthesky), the excellent and extremely canon side content to this fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [SAD LOVE POEMS FOR PARTY POISON (BY KORSE)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493624) by [flyingthesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingthesky/pseuds/flyingthesky)


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